


something wicked this way comes

by amazingjemma, rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, devil!Fitz, witch!Jemma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/pseuds/amazingjemma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: The story is recorded as follows: There met them a woman in strange and wild apparel, resembling creatures of the elder world.The world is changing. Something wicked is taking over and spreading poison. Now it's up to the devil's son and a not so wee little hag to save the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazingjemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/gifts).

> Based on [this edit](https://bigbysnows.tumblr.com/post/187726935813/fitzsimmons-devilwtich-au-in-collaboration) by Amazingjemma.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Animals hiding behind trees, rocks and amidst the uncut grass. The heather moorland is painted mauve by the low-growing perennial shrubs on the heaths covered in peat, beyond it green grass as far as the eye can see. A storm is coming closer, slowly gathering, thunder rumbling and rolling, and the air getting darker, thick black clouds on the horizon, as the wind gathers strength and blows through the plains, causing the grass to bend at its passage.

Fear impregnates the air as much as the smell of smoke and long extinguished fire do. Ash dances around, it swirls in a mesmerizing pattern and looks like snow in the fresh and crisp spring air. There's the lingering scent of winter and frost, a fresh and poignant smell that mixes with the smell of sweat and terror. Terror: It's solid, tangent and palpable. It could be cut with a knife. It makes it unbearable to stand there as witness. It causes whimpers to involuntarily form at the back of one's throat. To look away is an appealing and alluring idea and yet there's something that prevents people from doing so - instinct, perhaps, it looks like a show and they don't want to miss any of it.

Somewhere in the small crowd a baby starts crying. It doesn't understand any of it and can't see anything but the dark sky, only a couple of weeks old, it missed all the events that have lead to this moment. Nothing makes sense: The world is big and loud and all they know is the comfort of their homes and their cribs with the soft woollen duvets in it and their small and consumed toys. The baby's mother rocks it, singing a lullaby under her breath with a broken and shaky voice.

"Lullay, mine Liking, my dere sone, mine sweting. Lullay, my dere herte, mine own dere derling. I saw a fair maiden, sitten and singe. Sche lulled a litel child, a swete lording-"

The words echo through the air, nothing but a whisper and slightly out of tune. Carried by the wind and distorted by it, they sound distant, foreign and alien and bring back memories. They sound familiar, how many people in that small crowd had that very song sung to them when they were little? How many of them sung it to sons and daughter, nephews and nieces?

Part of Jemma remembers flashes of her own childhood: a garden filled with blossoming flowers, the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky. The smell of freshly baked bread coming from inside and her parents laughing. She remembers looking at the world with her eyes wide open and feeling an endless amount of curiosity: always ready to ask questions and even more questions, always ready to explore, always ready to listen and make discoveries. Part of her tells her to ignore it, tells her that it was all a dream, that the past is a foreign country where things are done differently. The past doesn't matter. All there is, is the present and it's a time filled with anger and rage that boil inside her and make her heart beat faster.

The baby's crying and the well-known words to that old lullaby whose refrain is an early example of English lullaby, feel like a direct appeal to her conscience, but they are distant and nothing but an echo. She can't hear them properly, too wrapped up in her own feelings, she doesn't find the strength to care.

She's wearing a green dress, although the colour has long started to fade, with a muddy hem, but it's the columbines in her hair that people are, without a doubt, going to remember. A fine crown of hardy perennials, the pale blue spurred petals look almost white from a distance, in sharp contrast with her dark hair. Pale as her skin, they'll say that the flowers were indication enough of her folly. Forget about betrayal and the ability to survive adverse growing conditions, folly is where it's at.

Someone whimpers and there's footsteps echoing through the air, heavy steps on the turf covered ground. Louder and bigger as they approach, they seem to conquer the world as everything else ceases to matter - the only thing moving, the only thing producing some noise, the only thing to give away that this isn't a piece of tapestry depicting an epic battle of good against evil. It's real and inescapable.

But there's something else too, something wicked coming her way: It's electric and magnetic, not human at all. A peculiar and eclectic energy that is as distracting as always. A primordial and ancient attraction that appeals both to her feelings and her rationality - it can be explained and explained away, it's a certainty and always has been. Part of her remembers, part of her doesn't: It's flashes of a life that does not belong to her anymore, memories of a stranger -they look faded and unreal.

It feels important but she cannot place it. It feels like something worth remembering, like the smell of rain in April as it soaks deep in the ground, watering the flowers' roots. But it's foreign now, out of place in this land she knows so well - every field and hedgerow, it's a place that likes her as much as she likes it. Not anymore, but the familiarity still stands undeniably there.

The wind gets stronger.

"What happened to don't burden your conscience with rush judgement?" asks Hunter as he takes place beside Fitz. Opposite to the crowd and hiding behind some bushes, out of sight, he looks at his friend before going on and saying, "Because I remember them saying that hasty persecutions and quick executions had to be avoided need to be avoided at all costs."

Caution is, or used to be, the essence when dealing with witchcraft accusations for killing an innocent is never the option and therefore careful investigations are vital and have to precede any execution of an alleged witch. But this, this is a messy business and doesn't make sense. The Simmons are a well-known and respected family, Jemma was friends with plenty of the village girls and they always knew. The sudden and unpredictable outcome is wrong and should never have happened.

"I'm afraid that's no longer a rule." Fitz pauses, his sharp breath cuts through the air. "Try to keep up, Hunter. You'd be a terrible witch hunter."

"There's no such thing as witch hunters."

There will be, Fitz wants to tell him, if they go on like this. Every village or county has a witch that helps people: cooperation is better than hatred. His father hates it, but he thinks it to be quite neat because all the parties involved gain plenty of benefits from it, they're all equals in everyday life, even though some of them some of them are more powerful.

"What?" asks Hunter.

"A frying pan?" Fitz stops, looking at the greasy and smelly piece of cast-iron in his friend's hands. "Really?"

"Listen, mate, I'm trying. It's the first thing I could find." His tone is apologetic, more than he'd like it to be. A pan is as good as the next thing, it's not like they stand that many chances anyway.

Jemma is losing control, more and more so to the point where it seems impossible to stop her. There's no longer time for hesitation or doubts, they've got to do something. Not kill her, just something that will somehow stop her before it's too late. Fitz nods at Hunter and they start to quietly walk towards her. Dust lifted by the wind enters his eyes, irritating them, and impairs his vision.

He blinks three times, the hold on the pan as tight as possible. Then he says, "All I've got is one chance, you distract her and I hit her on the head as hard as I can. That will show her alright. Let's end this, mate."

"Not like this!" Fitz all but yells, closing his hand around Hunter's arm, forcing it down. "Not like this."

"Fitz-"

"No, not like this. Please, just- that isn't Jemma. You know her as much as I do, she would never do this!"

Desperation paints his words, it oozes through every sound and syllable, making him feel pathetic. His father, for sure, must consider him pathetic: Trying to stop her when she already made her choice. But it's not too late, it's never too late, she herself taught him that. If he can make her remember, if he can somehow calm her down, they'll find another way and if Hunter hits her with a dirty frying pan he'll only put himself in danger without actually achieving anything.

A sharp pain at his heart, it hurts to see her like that and it fills him with rage that boils inside him, making his heart beat faster. He closes his fists until his fingernails dig into his skin and his knuckles turn white.

"That's Jemma, Fitz, try to keep up! She's going to do something reckless, burn the whole bloody village or something. These-"

"Will you please let me think?"

"I know we're friends, but I can't-"

"You don't know her!" Fitz screams, cutting him off. "You don't know her like I do. Jemma is a wonderful person, she's caring and kind and I know that she can be a little bit cocky and too presumptuous at times. Arrogant, even. But she's not- that!"

"Fitz, she's about to-"

"Please, I need you to trust me. I know her, Hunter, and-"

I love her, the words are on the tip of Fitz's tongue, but they're not ready to come out. Not like this. Not now, not ever. There's more important things to think about and if they have a future, then he shall spend it trying to find a different way to mince it in love instead of saying that he loves her.

"And I need you to trust me. We're friends, aren't we?" He goes on. "Something's messed with their minds, with Jemma's mind. She would never hurt innocent people, she's a good person, Hunter!"

"Who, Fitz? Who is there to mess with their minds? You're the bloody devil, if it wasn't you, then-"

"Jemma!" yells Fitz as he runs to her; His coat flaps at his sides and his face is a dark shadow under his black flat cap. His voice echoes in the air, loud and clear, over the plains.

The whole world seems to freeze, out of space and time, just the two of them - motionless, on the edge, curiously studying each other. Here and now every outcome is possible and he could be wrong as much as he could be right: It's a frightful prospect that begets terror.

"Jemma!" He repeats.

His first thoughts tell him that it's too late, that Hunter was right and that they should have hit her with a pan when they had the chance. His second thoughts tell him that there's time, that behind the rage and the anger, there's Jemma, the Jemma he knows and loves, the Jemma he's best friends with. And if she is, then there has to be something personal that he can rely on to help her calm down and step back. Useless, he thinks, being the devil's son and not being able to do anything. But she's strong, she can do it and she has to make it on her own without any interference. It's her choice.

"Don't do this, Jemma!"

"They killed my parents!" Yells Jemma at the top of her lungs. It's her voice but it isn't - deeper, sharper, darker. It could cut glass and frighten animals.

"And that makes you judge, jury and executioner?"

"They crossed a line!"

Jemma sees black fog raising behind Fitz as his features start to look distorted as if a moving picture made of two frames only. It's a thick and heavy mass that slowly moves towards her, curling, she stretches her arm out with one swift movement, pushing it to the side.

"Don't do this." He pauses. "This isn't who you are!"

Maybe not, but how can she be sure? Who knows if acts of cruelty don't characterize her too. Revenge is sweet and thrilling, the mere prospect of it is liberating and allows her feelings to disperse themselves. No grief, not anymore, just one quick and intense purge to get rid of it. The sense of self-destruction that washes over her is alluring and promises oblivion. Nightmares and memories feed her, an endless and vicious cycle that traps her and wins her over. There is no escape and she doesn't want one: They're such weak and fragile animals, but she isn't. She's better, she's powerful, stronger than nature itself.

A drop of sweat rolls down her forehead, a ticklish sensation, and she wipes it away distractingly. Her body doesn't feel like hers anymore as she finds herself being both the puppet and the puppet master, bidding her own will - without any restrictions, leaning into darkness, dancing with it. She's free and cruel, an addictive poison she can't get enough with, the closest thing to cackling that there is. They say that poison goes where poison's welcomed, and she opens her heart to it.

"You don't know who I am!" She says at last, trying to repress the laugh at the back of her throat. "Never such innocence again, Fitz. You said it yourself."

"I know what I said." He cuts her off. "We spend plenty of time together, remember? We used to talk about everything. Don't be fooled, Jemma, you're one of the good ones. You help people and always wanted to help them."

"You think I don't know who I am?" She scoffs, her tone is challenging and mocking at the same time. Deep down, the irresistible urge to prove him wrong.

"You don't! Jemma-"

"You don't get to say my name," she tells him, her voice completely distorted by the wind and something else entirely, something all but natural.

Jemma moves and he feels her power on him long before he's suddenly pulled forwards.

He looks at Hunter and mouths a no. Hunter cannot interfere, it's between him and Jemma now no matter how it's going to end. If something happens, it's on him - a grim awareness he can live with.

For a moment they defiantly look at each other: a silent challenge to let go first. But they're both too stubborn and strong-willed to accommodate the other and let them win, it's all part of an old and familiar rivalry.

Fitz won't stop or will die trying for there is but one certainty: her life before his. His father must be raging at the mere thought of it and he is sure that there will be consequences: He knows it well, it's textbook and established, there's an entire childhood to prove it. However, for the first time in his life, the thought of his father is remote and doesn't affect him at all. All Fitz can think of, all he cares about is Jemma. Her safety. Her peace. Her life.

"Not after what you just said."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," says Fitz, ignoring her.

He lifts his hand in the air as if to surrender, but the black fogs continues to fill the air, hiding them out of sight. It's pitch black, away from the world, early night-time or the end of the universe. 

"We're here to help you. I'm here to help you, please."

"You of all people should know!"

"Know what?" He asks. "I'm the bad guy, Jemma, no matter what. But you- Don't do this to yourself. You can't change the past, don't lose yourself because of it. I'm terribly, terribly sorry for what happened-"

"It won't bring them back!"

Somewhere a tree rips. It's far away from them and beyond their control, but adds a certain sense of drama to the whole scene. In the crowd a child pees himself, the stream of urine is hot against his leg and forms a small puddle on the ground.

"So what? You want to destroy everything instead?"

"They deserve it!"

"You want to destroy yourself?"

"What's it to you, huh?"

He feels as of the air has been sucked out of his lungs and he finds himself desperately gasping for it, as he is slowly lifted above the ground.

"Some of us care," he whispers, every word is painful to utter. "I care."

"Don't! You mean nothing. You mean nothing to me!"

Fitz shakes his head and closes his eyes. "That's not true, I know it's not true."

"And you should say the same. I'm just another soul, am I not? Say it."

"I can't." He sighs.

"Say it! Say I am nothing to you." 

"Stop it!" He fights back, an outburst of power as the whole world seems to tremble.

They look at each other in bewilderment and confusion. Something flickers in Jemma's eyes - recognition, perhaps, acknowledgement.

He goes on. "Stop making excuses for it, Jemma."

Fitz hears his own voice falter. He takes a deep breath and goes on. "It's on you. If you do this, it's on you and there won't be a way back, a way to fix things. Let me help you, I'm begging you."

"I'm just tired, Fitz," she says as tears start to fill her eyes and silently roll down her cheeks. "I'm so, so tired. I just want it all to stop."

"I know, but this isn't the way. They will be punished but not by you," he says, stretching his hand out for her to take. "Let it go, let history take its course and do this the right way. These things take time, you cannot take a short cut. It won't do any good, not in the long run. It's what it's for."

Carefully, with hesitation and infinite and gentle delegations, with part of her insisting on going on and get her sweet and long wanted revenge, she takes his hand. She feels her heartbeat slowdown and exhaustion settle and fill her, the immediate past nothing but a blur.

One of the columbines falls down from her garland and slowly oscillates in the wind; The spurred flower dances around and is transported further away and out of sight. They watch it and its mesmerizing movement, together. Fitz nods at Hunter who starts to encourage people to leave - there's no certainty that it really is over, and he'd rather not have any casualties.

"I want to go," she whispers under her breath.

"Then let's go, Jemma."

He picks her up and he hesitates a moment as she leans her head against his chest - warm and alive, an extraordinary matter. Then, without thinking about it twice, he steps through time and space only to step back into the world, right in front of his mother's cottage. He carries her inside, towards his childhood bedroom that has been left untouched for years, barely acknowledging his mother. The place smells of freshly baked bread and melted butter, a happy and comforting smell, the smell of home that fills his nostrils. It's the best place to be: warm and bright, it seems impossible for the past to find them.

"Please don't leave because of me. I don't know what got in me," says Jemma, holding him closer. "Now you've seen me."

"And you've seen me, Jemma."

"Did I hurt anyone?"

Fitz shakes his head.

"Did I hurt you?"

"You gave me the fright of my life. But you know me, it takes more than that," he replies as he carefully drops her on the bed. 

The smell of rosemary comes in through the open window along with the gentle breeze that has slowly started to blow. The wind is soft and caresses the trees who come alive and rustle and rattle ever so gently. It's almost like home, she thinks.

"Rosemary." Her voice is barely audible, but it sounds more like a tune than an actual sentence. "Is for remembrance, between us day and night-"

"Wishing that I might always have, you present in my sight." he goes on and smiles at her, fixing the woollen duvet and tucking her in before taking her hand again.

And when I cannot have, as I have said before then Cupid with his deadly dart doth wound my heart full sore, he thinks as memories flood his brain. Festivals and Jemma always at his side, friends it never mattered that his father wanted her on their side, they were friends and bitter rivals, a playful banter always present in their conversations. They danced together and she likes it to be asked properly he remembers spinning around as loud music played in the background and all there was, was him and Jemma, short breaths and hearts beating hard in their chest. So, so alive. As alive as ever. Innocent and naive. Never such innocence again. But those memories he wants to treasure them dearly now that he knows that he has to leave.

"I'm no good at goodbyes, Fitz," she says after a while.

"Then let's not say it." He pauses and gulps, his throat is dry and his voice croaky as he goes on and says, "Life is for the living, Jemma, don't let yourself go or you'll go further than you wish."

He waits till he hears her light snores and looks fast asleep before reaching his mother in the kitchen.

"So that's the wee hag you keep talking about," she says as she pours tea in some cups.

"I hope she's not a nuisance, didn't know where else to take her."

"No, no. It's alright. She can stay for as long as she likes." His mother pauses and sits down next to him. "They'll find her a cottage and a mentor and she'll learn to control her anger. Make friends. Stop feeling all alone in the world. She'll do fine, Fitz, I'm sure of it."


	2. Chapter 2

"Foolish, foolish girl," she whispers as she steps outside.

The heavy wooden door closes behind her with a loud thud as the iron lock falls back into place.

Late spring. The glen is illuminated by pallid and silver moonlight, it outlines the small cottages and their gardens as much as the fences and the nocturnal animals that covertly make their way across the muddy roads. It's a quiet night and the whole world seems to be asleep, ignorant and oblivious of such a potential tragedy.

Jemma Simmons is covered in dust and residues of blood that are just starting to clot. It's an uncomfortable feeling, as if her skin is being stretched, enhanced as she clenches her fists - her fingernails digging into her palm, white semicircles on pink flesh. Her hands are shaking and, as uncomfortable as it is, such a simple and insignificant gesture works as a call-back to reality, grounding her to the present and allowing her to regain composure.

"Christ," she says, wiping the tears from her eyes.

On the edge, about to break down, any moment now they're going to call her and say that the basin is filled with boiling water and the fresh linen has been withdrawn from the cupboard and she can resume. Then, she'll be too busy as always and there won't be neither time nor space to think about anything other than the girl in front of her: a brave and scared little thing, and a foolish one too. Incredible, really, how everyone seems to much braver than her, she's just the one with all the knowledge, the one destined to fix things and help people. Sometimes it seems unfair that it was always her, why on earth did it have to be? Then again, maybe doing things you didn't necessarily want to do was part of it. And you did them because you were good at them, because you were trying to make up for a moment of foolishness in your past, because it was your duty.

The smell of flowers and late frost fills her nostrils as she takes a deep breath. There's the smell of winter lingering in the soft undertones and the smell of spring mixing, an odd combination that perfectly shows how seasons seem to have gone mad. People at the village say it'll snow in less than a week, their voices firm and convinced, and such a simple remark is always followed by conjectures and remarks about the past.

An owl hoots from one of the nearest branches and turns its head around, curiously looking at the garden with big and orange eyes. There's a rush of wind and the trees in the orchard move gently, their leaves rattling and rustling as the night grows darker and darker as if all light had been sucked away, as if the world itself was about to end.

"I say-"

It's a familiar voice, Jemma would recognize it anywhere. She instinctively steps forward without paying too much attention, and firmly grabs the coat of the person in front of her.

"You!"

She looks up at him, their faces inches apart, studying him carefully. His stubble is longer now and his jawline is more defined, not quite the boy she remembers him to be. Handsome and very much there. For a moment she considers asking him how he is, but then she remembers the girl inside the cottage, the blood on her hands and the tears in her eyes, and she gets angry. It washes over her. It makes her blood boil and makes her feel powerful as Fitz stands in front of her looking all smug and triumphant. She feels as if she could kick him in the trousers.

"Go away and stop bothering me!"

Her voice echoes through the air. It's the voice, the one that makes children giggle in delight, the one she uses when someone interrupts her. It's stern and silences all contradictions, it's a voice that makes it unnecessary to say _I think it's best to do as you're told_.

Her face looks like thunder and her eyes like lightning, exactly the Jemma he remembers. There's something in her that begets terror, something that seems to warn people that it's best to do as she says. It's something ancient, primordial, as old as time itself. Irrational and instinctive, but fascinating and a little bit inebriating. Fitz cannot help but feel at awe.

All he can think of saying is _you're the one who called me_. Teasing and wry words, it seems impossible not to deliver them with a smirk on his face. Instead he says, "I see you've stopped fooling around. Here I was thinking that-"

"Just go away," she repeats.

Some people may call her reckless, speaking up against the devil's son without thinking too much about it, but she doesn't care. This is her territory, her work, her life! How dare he interfere?

"This really isn't the time," she adds.

"You called me."

"You don't say."

"I'll go if you want me too, you just have-"

"No, not that!"

"Then what do you want, Jemma?"

"You. I mean, I want to talk to you. it's been quite a long time." She pauses, looking away. "This won't take long, I'm quite certain that I'm almost done and then- Listen-"

"Yes?"

She glares at him and almost slaps him for being so insolent. Then, she says, "If you go back to the cottage, I'll give you the keys... Not that you need them. If you go back, you can wait for me there and when I'm back we can... Talk. We can talk. Will you wait for me to come back or do you have business to attend to?"

"I'll wait for you," he replies, taking the keys from her hand. "Is there-"

"Sonya, she's my cat. She won't mind you being there, don't worry. And she won't attack you either, unless she has a very good reason to do so, I suppose."

Behind them the doors creak open, warm and yellow candlelight filtering through the narrow space.

"I have to go now, but I'll be back soon. As soon as this is over. It won't take long."

"Yeah, you said that before."

Jemma places her hand on his cheek, a simple and quite familiar gesture. His stubble is ticklish and she wishes for the moment never to end. Too bloody long and look at them now: in a hurry with no time to properly reconnect. She'll make up for it later, she promises herself. A time to remember indeed.

"I'll see you then."

He nods and she leaves.

Walking is where it's at, unless the ground is covered in snow and the roads transformed into half frozen mud. He likes the smell of wood and animals, that pungent smell so typical of the countryside. There's something about all of this, something fascinating that has nothing to do with the city that is enhanced by the awareness that the countryside is a lawless place tinged with red. It's a smell strong enough to remember him of his childhood, those happy days spent with his mother, a gentle and bright reminder that there's good in life, especially in his.

It doesn't take long to reach Jemma's cottage, a two storey building with some trees growing dangerously close to the windows - it's branches scratching against the glass surfaces. White with dark wooden boards and flowers growing in small vases on each windowsill. It's too dark now to properly see them, but he'd like to stay until morning and see the whole thing in delight: an explosion of colours, no doubt.

"May I come in?" he asks as he opens the door, its creaking echoes around the dark and empty room, and steps inside.

That she's spent all these years alone doesn't come as a surprise: Hunter kept him rather well-informed about Jemma's whereabouts through the years. A teasing and playful voice, a silent accusation that Fitz himself was unable to step over the most insignificant of things and go talk to her in person. And yet he's here now, albeit late, at her own calling so maybe there is hope for him, for them, for the future, and not all is lost.

Fitz takes a cigarette out of his pocket and carefully places it between his lips and opens the nearest window so as to allow for the air inside the room to remain fresh instead of having the whole room smell like an ashtray. It takes him a moment to find the matches, but ultimately takes them out and lights his cigarette with an effortless and fluid movement. The flame is a feeble and trembling thing, and he cups a hand around it before he lights his cigarette and a couple of candles resting on the kitchen table.

"You must be Sonya," he says, as a black cat with green eyes appears in front of him. The cat's name leaves him mouth along with a puff of smoke that swirls in the air with a mesmerizing pattern. "Come here-"

The cat looks at him unbothered and unaffected, ignoring the noises he's making so as to invite her closer to him. His hand is stretched out and, any minute now, of that he is sure, the cat is going to come closer and allow him to scratch it behind its ears.

"Come here," he repeats.

Sonya looks at him defiantly, more interested in his cigarette than his hand or his words. Then she hisses, loudly, a sound that makes her sound more like a satanic hell beast than a kitten, and walks away - up the counter and out of the window.

"Pathetic," he tells himself. "You're pathetic, Fitz."

The cottage looks big and lived in, cosy even. It looks almost like he pictured it: plenty of books, small glass jars with dried herbs in them displayed on one of the shelves in the kitchen, the flowers outside. But there's something that he can't quite define that makes it different and less Jemma like - maybe it's because they've grown, maybe it's because of all the witches that lived in this cottage before her. With a great deal of curiosity he studies the herbal on one end of the table, Jemma's neat handwriting and a sentence interrupted midway, some careful and precise illustrations. He flips through the dusty pages and, as he does, a small paper not slips out - its edges yellow and ripped, it reads something about daffodils representing amiable surrender to lust and he can't help but smile at himself, certain that some things at least haven't changed at all.

A persistent knock on the door distracts him from his thoughts.

"It's me, Fitz," says Jemma, her voice muffled by the door. "Open up."

"Didn't expect you to be back so soon," he admits, stepping aside so as to let her in.

"Me neither, but it's better this way. More time for us." She stops and attentively studies him, lingering on his features now that there's time. "You still insist on wearing that ridiculous flat cap, I see. Oh hello there-"

She picks Sonya up and cuddles her, nestling her face against the cat's soft fur.

"That cat," says Fitz. "That cat hates me."

"Oh, nonsense. Sonya is a sweetheart, she doesn't have it in her to hate anyone."

"Well, I beg to differ. Look at her!"

"And? She looks pretty indifferent to me," replies Jemma, scratching Sonya behind her ears and basking in the happiness that the animal's gentle purring provides. "She's the best, you're going to be best friends alright."

"Hmmm. I say, what on earth happened to you?"

"Oh, this?" she asks, studying the residues of blood on her hands. "Some foolish girl in the village decided to take matters into her own hands instead of asking me for help; But it's all good now and they gave me fresh bread and some goat cheese. I'm happy to share if you want to have dinner with me."

"Sounds like a plan."

"But first a nice hot bath is in order, I'm pretty sure that the tub is large enough for the two of us." She stops, placing Sonya on the floor and taking her coat off. "Yes, I think it is. It'll be just fine."

She's teasing him, she thinks, of course she is. She remembers him telling her that life is for the living, that she shouldn't waste it and focus on the good things in her life. And if life is for the living, why not start living now? Let them be honest and let them have a future, act on instincts that through the years have gotten stronger instead of disappearing, but let her do it on her own terms and by buying some time, by teasing him for the sake of seeing him flushed and flustered. It's the Fitz she remembers, slightly embarrassed and tremendously sweet and caring.

It's a dangerous game, really, not so much because she fears him but because she isn't quite sure that she can contain herself and avoid reaching the point long enough. Self-control was never her forte.

"Why-" He mumbles as his gaze drifts from Jemma to the bouquet of daffodils on the kitchen table. "Wha- What?"

His thoughts are going staccato and he feels as if he's lost any ability to form coherent and well formulated sentences. Not knowing what to say or how to react is more embarrassing than the thought of his body's reaction to having Jemma sitting naked in front of him.

"A bath, Fitz." She pauses. "You know that thing where you fill a tub with hot water and get clean. Relax."

"I know what a bath is. Yes, no, why?"

"I feel like having some company."

"Com- Company, alright." He gulps and looks away. Sonya is, without a doubt, staring at him, waiting for his next word. Is it normal to feel this intimidated by a cat? It looks like it's judging him.

"It's not the first time, right? So what's the difference?"

For starters, they're not twelve anymore and this isn't some river with plenty of space. Or a pond. It's a bloody bathtub and he'll be sitting way too close to her not to have a hard time. Secondly, he genuinely likes her and doesn't want to ruin it all at once in one go, not now that they've just met again. But how to tell her?

"Nothing. Nothing of consequence. There is no difference at all."

"Fitz, are you scared of seeing me naked? Is that it? Is the devil's son scared of seeing a naked woman?"

"No?" he replies, though he sounds as insincere as it gets. "You wouldn't be the first one."

"That makes us even then. Equally experienced, I guess."

"Good."

"Good," she mimics him, playfully imitating both his voice and posture.

It takes them a while to fill the copper tub with the face of paint that was slowly starting to peel, but ultimately the water is enough and steam starts to raise slowly from it's motionless surface. There's flowers and herbs swimming on the surface - he cannot name half of them, but they make the whole thing look inviting if not irresistible, and familiar both in shape and colour - and there's a sponge is discarded at hands reach.

"Fitz," says Jemma as she enters the tub, slowly sitting down. "Are you going to strip or what?"

"Alright, but please close your eyes." He pauses and unbuttons his shirt. "And don't cheat."

"I promise you that I won't."

Jemma closes her eyes and then opens them again a little bit, enough for her to see Fitz as he slowly starts to undress himself. She imagines her hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, taking her time, letting anticipation built up. Away with the shirt moving on to his trousers, his belt, his underwear. Skin resting on skin. She imagines her kissing him passionately and Fitz reciprocating the kiss, welcoming her tongue into his mouth - gentle motions getting more decisive. How would it feel to kiss him, she wonders. Ludicrous, no doubt, for they've known each other for too long for it not to be so. Surely it must be strange to have his face so close to her own.

She feels a whimper escape her mouth and does her best to mask it with a loud cough.

"What was that?" asks Fitz.

"Nothing. Are you done?"

"Almost." He pauses. "You're not watching, are you?"

"Never."

When she opens her eyes again, Fitz is sitting in front of her and the water surface is crisp, moving in little ways in her direction. She stretches her hand out until she reaches her hand - fingertips dancing on skin and fingers curling.

"This is nice," she says at last.

"Nice, yeah."

He tries not to stare at her, his blue eyes lingering on her pale and freckled skin, and pretend that this is nothing; That Jemma isn't sitting naked right in front of him; That this doesn't feel like hell; That he doesn't feel anything at all. He's pretty sure that she's just messing with him, one of her brilliant ideas that turn out not to be brilliant at all, though he cannot fathom a reason to justify all of this.

What's all of this, he wants to ask, and what are we? Because if this is something, if she's trying to prove a point, then why not just skip the inanities and all the tiptoeing and reach for the larger thought? Why not be honest and tell each other what they want but not what they feel, not now, not like this, not ever. Let them skip dinner, for they can always eat later or in the morning, and head to her bed, stumbling on their way there as the wooden floorboards creak under their feet. Let them explore all possibilities and make up for the years spent apart.

Then again, as long as they are sitting in this tub, there's no real ending to the evening. It's distant, out of sight, and he likes it like that for now that he's there, he doesn't want to leave ever again.

"So, what have you been up to?" asks Jemma.

"Not much at all."

Other than perhaps trying to forget her. And that didn't turn out well, did it? Years of absence merely enhanced the longing and maybe even the lust, though he has yet to settle his mind on that. Nothing compares, of that he is sure, to the realness of this moment. He feels alive, like he hasn't felt in years, and it's all simple.

"You should ask me what Bobbi and Hunter have been up to."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"They're back together," he says dryly.

He hardly ever gossips, but anything is to distracting him from his hardening erection, anything to keep stop lustful thoughts from intruding his brain.

So this is it, he thinks, after all this time it's all the same. He thought that maybe after years away, after meeting her in person, he'd feel nothing much at all other than the friendship and the fondness of the earlier years. He thought, nay was convinced up until that moment in the garden, that he had finally rid himself of the doubts and the wondering and the question. They say that the past is a foreign country where things are done differently. It isn't, the present is worse.

"They're what now?" asks Jemma. Bewilderment oozes through every syllable and word, and her mouth ends up shaped in a perfect O.

"Third time's the charm, that's what Hunter says. They are quite stubborn, they should just admit that they still care about each other. It's as simple as that." He pauses. "Time will come when they'll have to stop it with this whole charade and stick to each other's side."

"What do you mean?"

"Times are changing, Jemma. Hunter and Bobbi... This shouldn't be happening, people are looking at the past, they're glorifying it and saying that things were better back then. One person is all it takes, they're right once and people will start wondering what else they're right about."

Hunter is being treated like an outcast and something tells him that it isn't because of his troubled relationship with Bobbi. They're married alright, even though Hunter swears that he has no idea in which part of the lake Bobbi's ring is, it shouldn't matter that he spends his nights at hers, it shouldn't matter at all. Hunter loves to joke about it, but behind all the deviations and behind all the humour, there's a touch of fear that is there for everyone to see.

Things are getting worse, dark times ahead, and Fitz would hate himself if anything were to happen to Hunter, Bobbi. Or Jemma.

"I'm sure it's nothing. People aren't that bad and coming from me-"

"That's quite something. You're different now."

"Oh."

"No, good different. I remember- never mind."

They spend the rest of the time in comfortable silence, he tries not to ask about her day and she doesn't tell him. Their eyes linger for too long, giving them away, and Jemma finds herself staring at him more than once as forgotten feelings are starting to reappear, unabridged and the more unforgotten. If only he were to ask her what this is all about.

"Jemma?" he asks, as she gets up. Water runs down her body and he doesn't have it in him to look away as she stands in front of him naked.

"Yes."

"I'm going to... You go downstairs, I need to do something first. Yes. It won't take long, I think."

"Alright."

By the time the door closes behind her, he's already started to seek his sweet release.

She goes downstairs, each step is painful to make. Her first thoughts say that she should go back to Fitz and take matters into her own hand, difficult to pretend not to know what he's doing when she feels the urge to do the same. This whole plan backfired on her and tastes like regret. Her second thoughts tell her that he didn't ask her to stay which means that she overstepped on long established boundaries and crossed the line.

"You're lucky," she tells Sonya as she puts the kettle on the fire. "You don't have to worry about the matters of the heart, do you?"

The cat looks at her with indifference and meows, before walking closer to her and jumping onto the counter, close to Jemma's hands as a request for some scratches.

"Lucky you indeed. I wish it was that simple."

"What's simple?" asks Fitz as he jumps down the last couple of steps.

"Nothing."

"You tell me," he replies.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, I feel much better."

She smirks and he feels his heart beat fast in his chest. It's impossible to resist the urge to smile.

Jemma hands him a plate with a piece of toasted bread with melted cheese on it, decorated with some rosemary. It's a familiar smell, the smell of tales told in front of a fire, the smell of his childhood.

"I didn't have one of these in years," he says as he takes a bite off his dinner, savouring it.

"Fitz." She pauses and looks at him. He looks flushed and shy, uncertain, as if things between them are fragile and any wrong word may throw them off balance. She wants to apologize for her behaviour, but instead she says, "the time I spent at your mother's and here... It was incredible."

"Are you going to tell me why you didn't call me sooner?"

She nods and smiles. It's a crooked smile tinged with sorrow that reveals wounds that may never heal completely. The urge to hug her and hold her close is irresistible, all he can think of is taking her hand. He doesn't.

"I didn't feel scared, I didn't feel relieved, I just felt alive. I wanted to hold onto that," she explains, taking another sip of tea. "I'm glad you're here though. I'm glad we're doing this."

"I'm happy to be here. I've missed- you."

"Though I have one question."

"Go on then."

"Was that you? That thing with the girls. Because if it was- If it was, don't you dare! This is my land, my people, my village! And you need to keep off the grass."

There it is, that voice again: sharp and cutting through the air. It's the voice that makes him want to worship her and do her bidding.

"It wasn't, and I very much doubt it was father. We may tempt people, sometimes, but I've never robbed anyone of their common sense." He stops. His voice falters as he goes on and says, "Anyone with a grain of reason in their brain would go to you. I'd come to you. If I were in trouble, you'd be the first person that-"

"You're scared, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You're scared that all of this is going to end end like last time." She gestures vaguely. "It won't."

"I won't stand by and watch them destroy everything that you've built, if that's what you mean."

"You watched over me," she whispers, leaning closer to him, their mouths only inches apart. "At Hannelore's and here."

The urge to kiss him is irresistible. They've been on the edge of this a couple of times and then, one night, yonks ago, her mouth had brushed against his - the memories flood her brain and there's nothing she can do to make them go away. Hostage of the past, Sonya seems to look at them with a touch of disdain in her eyes.

"I had to protect you. I have to protect you."

Her hand closes around his wrist as she says, "I don't need protection, Fitz. And I sure as hell don't need your anger. Anger, mine or yours, won't change the past."

"It's not about that."

"Then what's it about, Fitz?"

He gulps and moves his head forwards, hardly breaking eye contact. No hesitation, no infinite and gentle delegations, their lips meet and it feels satisfying if not meant to be and it’s better than any fantasy or dream. They are eager, hungry animals, touch starved and aroused: It’s impossible to say who’s the most desperate. 

Outside the sky becomes darker, the full moon hidden by thick clouds. Sudden and torrential rain that hits hard against every surface and thunder that rumbles, louder and louder. A burst of lighting floods the room with bright white light - two people, getting undressed, dark outlines with indistinguishable features, all fumbling hands and clothes ungallantly dismissed on the floor. 

Too blinded by their passion, they don’t notice the ominous black figure standing outside under one of the trees - rage and disgust, it is true what humans, these pathetic and weak creatures, say: the apple never falls far from the tree.

The storm goes on and the figure disappears. 

Inside, Jemma’s voice cries out inhibited, in pleasure and triumph. And that is merely the beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you use that for flying around?" he asks, pointing at the broom next to the kitchen counter. "Please tell me that all the stories are true and not only is this your usual mode of transport, but also your preferred one."

Never mind that he has never seen her riding a broomstick. Never mind that it seems rather unlikely for anyone to use a broom to travel from place to place. It is quite the picture to imagine, and a very amusing one too, and he can see it in all its details: Jemma flying above the trees and Sonya right behind her, doing her best to hold on to the wooden brush with her paws.

"Fitz, everyone knows that witches, as subnatural things, vanish and go to earth," she replies matter-of-factly. She states it as a simple truth, but her eyes are piggy and her voice squeaky and both things give her away.

If anything, he wants to say, vanishing and going to earth sounds even more daft than flying. Think of the mess.

"Ah, I see," he says instead. "So what's the broom for?"

"Dusting the floor." Jemma shrugs and grabs for the broom, pushing it into his hands. "Every household has one and you, of all people, should know that. But thank you from the bottom of my heart for volunteering and making yourself useful."

Fitz's fingers wrap around the irregular and rough surface of the shaft out of instinct. His grip is tight as he stands there, motionless, looking at her while his thoughts run wild, trying to make sense of how on earth they managed to get to this when not so long ago it felt as if they were once more headed to the bedroom.

He looks up only to see Sonya staring at him from the kitchen table. There's a hint of amusement in her green eyes and she looks curious, completely absorbed by what is going on. It's a silent judgement, he's sure, and a dare to go on: whatever his choice, it'll be the wrong one so they might as well enjoy themselves.

"You're welcome." He smirks.

Two can play this game and it's not that he minds doing some housework. The very opposite, really, for there's a sense of domesticity to it, a sense of belonging, It makes him feel welcomed and at home, here, at Jemma's side, in her house. Nowhere else, a natural spot next to her. He never wants to leave and she doesn't want him to leave either, for he remembers that ridiculous trick with the teacup - freezing its content - just to buy them more time. Actions speak louder than words, that sort of thing, and he hopes that one day, soon, there will be enough courage to speak too.

Fitz tilts his head to the side and leans forward, his mouth inches away from her neck. The simple gesture has something erotic to it, and his warm breath on her skin sends shivers down her spine.

"Though there are plenty of other ways I could make myself useful," he says before he kisses her - slow and languid movements, open mouthed, his tongue on her skin.

There's a moan at the back of Jemma's throat, ready to come out, as she whimpers, "Hunter and Bobbi-"

"Will be here any minute," adds Fitz, finishing her sentence. "So what does it matter if the floor's not dusted? We're having a picnic. Who cares. Besides, you could just make it go away with a simple gesture, some wind or God knows what."

"And where's the fun in that, pray tell?"

"People always go to such lengths to avoid doing their chores-"

"And you're one of them?"

"From where I'm standing it looks as if you're the one who doesn't want to do them." He pauses. "After all, you're the one who so kindly handed me the broom."

Jemma smiles and steps closer, pressing her body against his. "I think that chores can be tremendous fun, Fitz."

"I can show you tremendous fun, Jemma, if that's what you want."

He grabs for the hem of her dress. The light and thin cotton fabric crumples in his hand and he pays as much attention not to rip it as he does to Jemma's own reaction, as if any minute now she's going to tell him to stop. Calculated and painfully slow movements, anticipation and arousal adding up as her bare legs are slowly exposed to the warm summer air. He feels the urge to kiss her thighs, kneel down and take his time, until Jemma's whimpers fill the air and either of them won't resist any longer.

"I'm sure." She pauses, grinding her body against his. "You look horny."

"Want to bet?" He asks. "You are horny."

She laughs. "Oh no, I trust you completely."

Jemma pushes his hand away. For a moment he looks puzzled, ready to step back, but then she lifts her dress and gets rid of it, ungallantly dropping it on the floor. She stands there naked but for her knickers, her back turned to the kitchen's window: The idea of someone passing by, as unlikely as it seems, gives the whole scene an illicit touch that arouses them even more. It's impossible, now, to step back and go on with whatever they were doing before, they might as well finish what they started: Forget the floor and forget Hunter and Bobbi. It's the two of them and the rest of the world is out of reach, distant, nonexistent.

"Are you going to touch me or do I have to do everything myself here?" she asks, her hand slowly moving across her belly, to her panties, before she pushes the soft and damp fabric aside.

"No," he says and kisses her. "I'm happy to oblige. Needs must, right?"

"Oh, they must. They simply must."

He lifts her on top of the kitchen counter and she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, until his erection presses against her core. His hands are on her back, caressing her skin, moving up and down her spine as he kisses her with confidence and precise movements.

"Fuck!" He gasps as Jemma fumbles with his trousers. His hips jerk forwards and Jemma moans loudly.

"Yeah, that's the plan."

"No, I mean... I can't do this." He pauses and turns his head to look at Sonya. "Good God, I feel judged by your cat."

"Ignore her."

"I can't! She keeps looking at me as if she's daring me to go on. I can't have sex with you like this, she looks at me as if I'm going to regret this as soon as we're done."

She laughs, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, her whole body shaking. "I say, what am I supposed to do?"

He sighs. Jemma looks irresistible all the time, but now, in the golden morning sun, even more so. Her hair looks lighter and she seems a dark outline with a halo of light around it - subnatural indeed, powerful. He feels his heart beat faster in his chest as tenderness washes over him.

Let the fuck, he thinks, who cares about the bloody cat and what comes after it.

Nay, let him make love to her. There's nothing he'd love more than take her in his arms and carry her upstairs to the bedroom, make love to her, convey his feelings through his actions - gentle touches and thrusts bound to become erratic, languid and eager movements.

Let them make love to each other for there has to be something other than the sex. Not that he feels like complaining, never that, but if so, why go to such lengths instead of shagging the first person in any village who feels inclined to oblige?

Jemma moans, distracting him from his thoughts, and he looks up only to see that she hasn't stopped at all.

"Let me," he says, his voice hoarse and his throat dry, and steps forward, replacing her hand with his.

Just as she starts to think that she won't last any longer under Fitz's careful and thoughtful ministrations, they're interrupted by a loud thud coming from outside. It's a sudden and muffled sound that appears distant in their ecstasy, anticipated by the slight creaking of the window being opened and followed by a loud and distinguished meowing.

"See?" asks Fitz, retrieving his hand and stepping back. It's a painful and heartbreaking disappointment to do so. "I can't. You'll have to take matters into your own hands, I'm afraid. I, for one, will dust the floor."

And think of something unsexy if not horrid to distract him from his arousal.

"Or we could go upstairs, you look terribly uncomfortable in those trousers. I can take them off for you, you know." 

Jemma pouts, it makes her look like a child who dared to ask for sweets before dinner. Fitz can’t help but choke on his own saliva and coughs loudly as he imagines the children they might have one day. The realization that he’d do anything for her is sudden but not unexpected, she just has to ask.

"We could go upstairs, close the door, continue what we started. It will be time well spent, I promise. I want you, Leopold James Fitz. I want you, let's go to bed." Jemma goes on.

"And then what?"

"And then I'll do something that will-"

"No, not- that. Afterwards. What happens when we come back here, to that hell beast you call kitten? She's going to kill me and I'd rather not die by the hands of your cat, thank you very much." He shrugs and shakes his head. "Or she'll let the mice get the biscuits and that would be quite the waste."

"This is a waste."

Jemma jumps down the counter and lands on the floor with a soft thud. She looks at him, defiantly, and gets rid of her panties. Then, she says, "I'm going upstairs. Feel free to change your mind, after all that's what it's for."

He watches her leave, but doesn't change his mind even though he desperately wants to. Instead, he goes outside, looking for Sonya. He finds her curled up in an unused flowerpot, looking like a black hole or some sort of portal, a ball of darkness in such a sunny and colourful spot. The epitome of all things evil, if ever there was one, and he thinks himself to be quite the fool: The Devil’s son, embarrassed by and taking orders from a cat.

"This is ridiculous," he says, stretching his hand out and scratching the cat behind its ears. "We're ridiculous and I think we can agree on that, can we not?"

Sonya meows at him and leaves, leaving him alone to pick up the vase and clear up the mess. His thoughts are still turned to Jemma in the upstairs bedroom and it's all too easy to imagine what is going on. Pathetic, all of them, but he most of all. There's nothing he wants more in the world than go to Jemma and keep her company, let her take his breath away, let her strip him, let them find release, and yet here he stands thinking that he owes something to a bloody cat that doesn't even like him that much.

"Pathetic," he says to himself.

By the time she steps outside, the vase is back at its place and now has some flowers in it and Fitz is attentively studying some of the herbs that grow in the east corner of her vegetable garden. There's rosemary and hot lavender, rue or herb-of-grace, fennel. A green patch with yellow flowers and some violets.

"Pansies," says Fitz. "That's for thoughts."

"And rosemary for remembrance."

"What's the rue for?"

"Abortifacient."

"Ah. That was quite... unexpected."

"I usually vouch for safety, but you know how these things are." She pauses. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing of consequence. I think Sonya forgave me because, as you can see, I'm still alive."

"You missed a lot." She smirks, nudging him with her elbow.

"Yeah, I figured. Spare me the details, will you?"

"Lest you stop feeling comfortable in that suit?"

"That." He pauses. "So, why do you think Sonya hates me?"

"That's nonsense, I'm sure she doesn't."

He looks at her and they sit down on the fresh grass. "Jemma, please- One minute it looks as if we finally get along, the next she's throwing down vases to avoid me and you having sex. I don't get it, it's not like I'm going to get you pregnant and run away."

"Dutch condoms really are quite the invention," she jokes.

"I'm serious."

"Me too." She takes his and watches a ladybug as it lands on Fitz's dark trousers. "I don't know what you want me to say. I very much doubt that it's because of who you are. These things take time, she's like that with everyone."

He's about to say _if you say so_, when Hunter and Bobbi appear at the end of the gravel path that leads to the cottage's door. Jemma all but jumps up, fixing her dress and running towards them, waving at her friends in the meanwhile.

"We meet again," says Bobbi. "At last!"

"And it's not in thunder, lightning or rain either," replies Jemma. "I've missed you."

"Come here, you."

Bobbi hugs her, holding her close, her arms around Jemma's shoulders. For a moment Jemma feels like a child again, running to Bobbi for comfort and affection, for kind words and sincere advice. An older sister, if ever she had one, she feels safe in her embrace. She feels as if she has an ally.

"Mate," says Hunter. Before he can stretch out his hand in greeting, Sonya reaches him, meowing so as to beg him to pick her up. Once in his arms, she nudges her head against his chin and waits for Hunter to hold her against his chest.

"Who's the bestest girl in the world?" asks Hunter as Sonya starts to purr. "You are. You're the sweetest. What?"

"Really?" asks Fitz. "Now that's what I call a bloody betrayal."

Sonya looks at him unbothered and unaffected. She's not like that with anyone, not even Jemma, and then - the first stranger that comes is the winner of her love and affection. It really is ridiculous. To think that not two minutes ago Jemma was trying to reassure him that Sonya was a rather affectionless cat. Good to know that it really is him that the cat has something against.

He just wants to laugh.

"So," says Hunter as they walk down the path, headed to the pond where they'll have their picnic. "Jemma's the wee little hag that made you go all soft, eh? Some things never change, mate."

Fitz feels the corners of his mouth slowly rising into a smile as he puffs a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. He feels soft. He feels excellent and in love even though he lacks the courage to voice his thoughts. It's definitely not just the sex, he wants to tell his friend, though who is he to complain? It's being in her company and their precious friendship. It's sharing meals and waiting for her at home, holding her close in front of the fire, talking after a long day. It's waking up beside her, the best part of her day happening before he gets up.

He scoffs. "What?"

"People gossip, Fitz. Universally, they gossip. And no one can resist the chance of saying _I told you so_. They like to be right about such things, make them feel as if they figured everything out. And they may not like me, but they do gossip. It seems that you and Jemma are the talk of the village. Everyone says that it was always a matter of time."

"Do they now?"

Hunter raises an eyebrow. "Don't be daft, Fitz, You may be the devil's son, but you're an open book too. We've known each other our whole lives, I think I can tell the difference between feelings and indifference."

"You're right," he cuts him off. "I'm not indifferent at all."

"Does she know?"

Fitz shrugs and looks away. "We're having fun, why bother."

"You're lying to yourself, mate."

"How are things with Bobbi?"

"Cracking. Turns out that the third time really is the charm."

"Maybe it's time you start looking for that ring of hers."

"I know where it is, I just don't feel like diving into a lake to get it."

"Ah."

Hunter laughs. "Does it matter? It's just a ring."

"You tell me."

"I think there's more important things to worry about."

"That bad, huh?"

"Listen, I know that you and Jemma have been through a lot. Jemma's parents and... History is starting to repeat itself. If you-"

"If I hear anything, you'll be the first one I will tell."

"Thank you, mate."

"Don't mention it." Fitz pauses. "How's the forge going? I may need new horseshoes soon."

"I'll be more than glad to do the job, but you'll have to be careful."

"I'm always careful." Fitz rolls his eyes, ignoring the look Hunter gives him. It’s a familiar one, he knows the meaning and quite well indeed, but that doesn’t make him ready to discuss the matter with his friend.

"People believe there. People see."

"Are you suggesting I should cover their eyes with a blindfold?"

"No, I'm suggesting to take care." Hunter stops, taking a deep and shaking breath. "You're not a fool, Fitz, but you're hot-headed and reckless. You wear your heart on your sleeve, make it obvious. If anyone wants to hurt you, this thing with Jemma-"

"Jemma can protect herself, Hunter."

"I know, but who's going to protect you and your heart?" Lance smiles sadly, unsure about his ability as a protector. Fitz is like a little brother, sometimes it feels as if he’s been looking after him for centuries, he’d hate for anything to happen to him. Fitz has been through enough shit, especially with that useless person who dares to call himself a father.

"I think I can manage." Fitz scoffs. Sometimes when he sleeps he dreams and in his dreams someone is coming for his crown. But who is there to take the throne? "It worked rather well last time."

By disappearing for ten years. Neither of them finds the strength to voice the truth.

The glen is green and the trees reflect in the smooth surface of the lake. There's birds singing and flying above them, in the cloudless blue sky. That year had an odd spring characterized by capricious weather - late rain and snow at the end of May - but this summer feels proper: warm weather and the occasional downpour.

Everything feels right with re-established trust and blossoming love. Happiness and carelessness. Freedom. Congratulations, it seems are of order.

There's shrid pies and ale, some cheese and bread, and plenty of apples. They sit down on the grass on an old and worn-out woollen duvet, in the shadow of some ancient trees. Sonya lies on Hunter's lap, napping. Jemma constantly looks at Fitz, as if he's her whole world - subtle glances and lingering touches, both of these things lasting longer than necessary.

"It's times like this," says Jemma as she takes another sip of ale. "That it seems impossible for it to be any bad in this world. It's all good. Not perfect, just good. A life worth living."

"You should tell our neighbours," says Hunter.

"What do you mean?"

"It's getting worse. I don't know how or why it's happening, but it is. I know we had a great deal of private drama in the past ten years, but we did good, didn't we?" Bobbi pauses reflectively. "I did good. I helped. I spent years helping them and things were balanced. You give and you get back. I'm not better than them, I can't bake or knit and I sure as hell can't- But it's no longer working, they're closing their doors. They say that poison goes where poison's welcome and it is very welcome indeed. How are things here?"

"Not bad at all." Jemma looks at Bobbi. "There's the occasional butthead who wants to do things their own way, but it's mostly teenage girls who are too stubborn to ask for help. Too embarrassed, who knows. Clever things, the lot of them. I remember being their age and being worse, so I can't blame them, nor can I judge them."

"What do they say about Fitz?"

"Nothing. I don't think they know or care about me. Perks of living far away in the woods and we hardly go anywhere."

Jemma snorts and coughs. "We do get to the market, but there’s way too many people they just don’t look and if they look like they don’t care. We go on with our lives as much as they do. For all they know we could be parting ways at the exit.”

It's rather ludicrous, really, because most of the time she could swear that both she and Fitz smell like sex.

"What I'm trying to say," says Hunter. "Is that either things sort themselves out soon or Bobbi will be jobless. The forge won't close, people may not like us, but they need work. It's either that or starvation."

"If you need help, you just have to ask. Please."

"It's nothing. History is full of ups and downs, I'm sure it'll pass."

"But if it doesn't, if-"

"How did it start anyway?" asks Jemma.

"They used to call me, us, people like us, doctor she. They close their eyes and pretend that witchcraft is just herbalism taken to an extreme. They focus on the good things, fool themselves if you want to. They're healthy, there's someone to help them do all those things that they don't want or can't do. But now? Now they see the bad stuff or rather like to imagine what goes on behind closed doors. It's better not to ask for help for God knows what could happen. That sort of things."

For a moment, after Bobbi’s short lived and harsh rant, there's complete stillness and silence but for the rustling leaves. Then, Bobbi says, "They'll never admit that they need us. They're too proud. They'll never admit it because of who we fucking and where we fucking come from. But I promise you this, if I find the bastard behind all of this, I'm going to hunt him down myself."

Bobbi's voice goes down octaves as she reaches the end of the sentence. It sounds different and nightmarish, A force to be reckoned with and a promise. The dryness of it all makes it sound like a curse, a warning. There is no escape, there's pure vengeance oozing through each syllable. An eye for an eye, there won't be any holding back.

"You could stay here," Fitz suggests. It's not a bad idea, he can keep his eyes on them and protect them. Who knows, a change of scenery might even do them good. A new life. A fresh start. There has to be something appealing to it.

"With you?" asks Hunter. "Hell no. I'd rather not live under your roof and have to hear all the things that go bump in the night. All the growls and sighs of a two backed beast. That's a dreadful prospect, there's only so much I can bear." 

"Alright," says Fitz, pushing himself up. His face is flushed and he does his best to avoid Hunter's gaze. "I think I'm going closer to the shore."

"You like him, don't you?" asks Bobbi as she watches Hunter follow Fitz to the small lake. "You like Fitz very much. You can hardly keep your eyes off him."

And her hands, Jemma wants to say, which proves that Bobbi's words mean nothing much at all. It's not true, but she likes to fool herself and consider this a serious of escapades rather than something serious. Too much history and they're having fun, why put it into words and maybe ruin things? One step at a time and there's plenty of it, the greatest gift of all, for she has no intention to let Fitz go. Not again. She keeps telling herself that she's going to send him straight away; to-morrow because it's no good, because it's like playing with fire, because they really shouldn't be doing this. It's unheard of and unprecedented, the thought begets terror late at night when she looks at him, fast asleep next to her, and thinks about her feelings.

It's not about the sex, she wants to tell Bobbi, confiding in her. She's pretty sure that it's about love. But if it is about love rather than lust, shouldn't Fitz be the one to hear about it first?

"He's my best friend," she says instead.

"I mean, you seem to love him."

"I don't know, Bobbi, it's all too complicated. We're friends alright and the sex is great, fantastic. Those two things we're good at. But everything else? Everything else is a big hot mess."

"Is it or are you two complicating it?"

"I don't know." Jemma pauses, and plays with a blade of grass by knotting it repeatedly. "Both, I guess. I mean, he's the devil's son, for Heaven's sake, and I shan't forget what Alistair- never mind that. I see you and Hunter and you make it look so easy, so effortlessly. You make it look as if all of it is worth the ride."

"It is worth the ride or we wouldn't be here. And it's not easy, Jemma, these things never are, it takes courage and commitment and hard work. Look at us, we're doing this for the third time."

Bobbi laughs and picks up a bunch of daisies, working them into a garland. Then, she says, "Look, I could tell you a thousand times that the ride is worth it, but I know you, Jemma. I know that you need proof and can't just leap, jump feet first into the unknown. But I can tell you this, you won't find your answers if you don't try. Fitz likes you a lot, everyone can see that. One could always see that. You make him go all soft."

"Do I?" asks Jemma, leaning her head on her friend's shoulder. "I feel like he's the one who makes me go all soft. I can't stop smiling. I feel as if I caught happiness by chance."

"So what's the issue, then?"

"I think it's a bit early to tell," says Jemma. "That's the issue."

"Tell what?"

"Whether it stands the old thing, the test of time."

It feels as if they're caught between the nightingale and the lark, in this inbetween state in which they aren't able to make up their minds. Where is this going and what do they want? Simple questions with complicated answers. Between darkness and light, caught and torn between opposite loyalties and extremes. Something tells her that it won't be easy, if anything, she's sure, it's going to be a tour de force. Fitz is convinced that he's a bad guy, but is he? Really? Or is he just as capable to do both good and evil as everyone else? He's a bringer of chaos - it's his destiny and his duty - but she brought chaos once and will again.

"There you go," says Bobbi, placing the daisy garland on the top of Jemma's head. "Not really appropriate for your situation, but it does suit you."

Jemma laughs and takes Bobbi's hand. "Are things that bad?"

"What things?"

"The ones happening at home. Is it really getting so much worse, like the time with mama and papa?" She pauses. "If it is, please come and stay for a while, at least until it's safer."

"You're sweet, Jemma."

"I promise that if you do come and stay, Fitz and I will tone it down."

Bobbi strokes her hair and holds her close. "Thank you for the offer and the consideration, but I won't run away from all of that, you know me."

"You're a storm braver if ever I saw one."

"But you and Fitz," Bobbi continues. "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"We are." Jemma pauses. For a second she considers making a joke about contraceptives and how ridiculous some condoms look with that ribbon holding them in place, but it seems out of place given the grievous circumstances. Instead, she says, "We're going away for a couple of days. To visit his mother."

"Now that's what I call a plan. Quite a throwback too."

"It's been a while, and I had such wonderful years there. Fitz is rather fond of her and I know that he hardly ever speaks about his mother, but he does miss her." She stops, looking away. "His father on the other hand? He regrets he lived."

"Yes, I know."

"Sorry."

"No, don't apologize. We've all known each other for years. Jemma, do you think that Alistair Fitz has something to do with what is happening?"

Jemma sighs. "I don't know. He's a bastard alright, but there are rules, Bobbi."

"I know."

"I don't think he'd break them. Too much at stake, he likes power and control."

“I don’t know what to think anymore. There used to be a couple of certainties, now I’m not sure about anything. What dark times we live in, my dear friend, what dark times indeed. I’d have wished you a happier future, you’ve been through enough. Both of you. I used to wish you the very best that life can bring.”

“Life can still bring good things.”

“Maybe so,” she pauses. “Jemma, I know that this is something Fitz keeps telling Hunter, but I do want you to hear it from me. If, and I’m not saying it will, but if something were to happen, please know that Fitz is your strongest ally. Don’t let it come between you.”

“Trust me, it won’t.”

“Promise me. I know you think you’re powerful, and you are, but you won’t be in the position to push everyone away.”

“I won’t. I promise.” 

Because she did it once, closed herself off and focused on revenge, but not anymore. It’s easy, now, years later, to see how wrong it was. The mere thought of it makes her feel uncomfortable. This is her life! Her friends! Her family! Sometimes there’s power in selfishness, there’s a purpose in selfishness. And she has lots of it. They should try and keep off the grass.

“Just because I don’t tell him everything doesn’t mean things are going badly.”

“Then one day, I hope you will tell him. It doesn’t have to be in so many words, it comes in different ways. Don’t waste it, Jemma, this life is all you’ve got. I’m not pressuring you, am I?”

“No, but you do sound like some of the girls in the village. Do you have a sweetheart, Miss?”

“And do you have a sweetheart, Miss Jemma Simmons?”

"Oh, yes! He's standing right there, next to your husband," she answers, pointing at Fitz. His hair looks golden in the afternoon sun and in his hand there's that stupid flat cap he insists to wear. The crown of a prince. She sees him lean towards Hunter, saying something, and then they both laugh - their laughter echoing around the glen.

Jemma smiles, overwhelmed with love and fondness. It's an elating and powerful mix that adds up to an old realization for which she couldn't and wouldn't be with anyone else or anywhere else.

And if havoc is indeed around the corner, if something is to happen, then the person responsible should better watch out and listen carefully for the sound of her heels on the pebbled ground. And once they do hear her heavy steps, they better ask for repentance before it's too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *BBC lady voice* this chapter contains scenes of a violent nature which some <strike>viewers</strike> readers may find upsetting.

The alehouse is empty.

All the chairs are resting on top of the tables as the floor dries. They look like fortresses in the golden afternoon sun - impenetrable, built against infection and the hand of war. The light filters through their legs making them look like dark towers and ancient spires, surrounded by ancient motes of dust that are dancing in the air in a mesmerizing and bewitching pattern.

Time doesn't seem to pass here, each minute the same as the ones that precede and follow it. Everything is frozen as life lazily goes on, far away from the real world. It's a dreamlike atmosphere, a subnatural one, and there's something about it that makes it easier for people to forget themselves. Out of time and space, seconds stretch themselves to eternity and beyond and prevent time from passing: Even the clock in the corner seems to disobey rules and physics, a lifetime between one tick and the next.

A path of muddy footprints, encrusting and slowly cracking, that go from the heavy main door to the counter. A middle-aged man bent over the counter is intensely speaking to the barmaid, their voices stop as soon as they hear the door open - the old and rusty hinges creaking due to the sudden movement. Heavy footsteps echo around the room, there's a hint of purpose in them: They sound calculated, ominous. They attract attention making it impossible not to listen or to look away.

The man lifts his hand to capture the barmaid's attention. She seems all too eager to please him in more ways than one.

"Something strong," Fitz orders as he makes his way to the counter, breaking the silence. His voice sounds like thunder, the one that usually rolls in the distance foreshadowing and anticipating the storm that’s to come. It's terrifying and threatening voice that promises death and destruction. As soon as the sentence comes to an end, time seems to resume flowing. "A scotch whiskey. Make it a double."

"The crown of a prince," says Holden Radcliffe as he looks up and watches Fitz dropping his hat on the counter. "Soon to be king, I bet."

Fitz turns around, looking at the man he once considered to be his mentor, and for a moment he feels ten again: a little child, hoping to end in better hands than his father's. A sharp pain at his heart, how different history might have been.

"You don't bet," he replies dryly.

"No, I do not."

"Where's my father?"

Radcliffe takes a sip of ale and sighs loudly. "You mean Alistair? That pathetic, power-hungry and useless bastard. I hope he's somewhere dead in a ditch. I'm sure that can be arranged somehow. Tha e traugh, it's a pity. It's a pity he's still alive."

Fitz raises his glass, the amber liquid oscillates in it and a couple of drops fall on his skin. _ I'll drink to that _, he wants to say. The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to come out after years and years of withholding, but they remain silent. 

Instead, he gulps down the drink in one go. It burns in his throat and goes to his head straight away and makes him feel brave, powerful, bold. An illusion he's very much aware of, but it does help and somehow compensates with the belittling feeling that the mere mention of his father's name provides.

"Yeah, well, I need to talk to him," says Fitz at last as he drops the glass on the counter.

"He's gaun his dinger ower it." The barmaid cuts him off, before going back to attend her business. "Your father."

"In a rage over what?"

"Jemma Anne Simmons."

The whole place goes dark and silent as if an eclipse were happening like years before. Darkness is the universe: complete blackness but for a flickering light at the window. It's the end of time itself. It begets terror and Alistair Fitz stands right in the middle of it.

"The wee little hag," says Fitz's father as he jumps at his son’s throat, pushing him against one of the brick walls.

The rough and irregular surfaces feel coarse against his skin. Fitz gasps for air, his father's grip around his throat slowly tightening, fingers digging into his skin. Slowly he turns his head, pleadingly looking at Radcliffe, silently begging him not to interfere. It's between him and his father. It was bound to happen, inevitable, and he'd rather have it happening here than anywhere near Jemma's place.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fitz croaks. "Whatever relationship runs between me and that woman, it is merely a business relationship."

"Is it?" Alistair's voice is cold and detached. "A little bird told me that the two of you gave yourselves to country matters."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, father."

Fitz does his best to keep a neutral and indifferent expression. It's a complicated matter when the simple mention of Jemma's name is enough to make him smile, make his knees go weak and make his heart beat hard in his chest. Even now as the name comes out his father's mouth. Even though it sounds tainted, dirty and wrong. The worst sin of all: Unforgivable and rage-inducing. Why should it matter what his father thinks? That bastard is a pathetic being, always hungry for even more power as if he hadn’t enough already - nothing will ever be enough for him and it seems rather unlikely that he’ll change.

Fitz raises his hand and grabs his father's wrist, violently closing his fingers around it, with as much pressure and strength he can muster. His father lets him go and he falls on the floor with a loud thud, his coat flapping up and down because of the sudden movement.

"I charge thee, son. Speak!"

Alistair's voice echoes around the room. A deep grumble so sharp it feels it could cut glass and kill people. Behind his eyes, complete fury raging wild and unabridged.

"I've got nothing to say to you, father."

"Liar!"

A chair falls down and breaks as it hits the floor. It's all too familiar and predictable. It's a scene Fitz lived through countless times before.

"Thou dost usurp authority." His father pauses, exhaling sharply, and shakes his head. "My usurping son. My usurping and dog-hearted heir, making the beast with two backs with that insignificant conjuring harpy called Jemma Simmons."

"She means nothing to me," replies Fitz, desperately trying to sound convincing.

The words are painful to utter as the memories stand against him and mockingly look at him, but they come out in a cold and calculated manner. One single sentence poured out in a grammatical fashion; He could fool himself if it wasn't for the nauseating feeling such a justification provides. It's difficult to say what is real and what isn't as the boundaries of reality start to fade and he finds himself stepping from one side to the other - like a game children might play in streets or yards.

_ It's not real_, he tells himself, _ not of this is_. But his father's anger is violent, tangent, palpable, and it promises consequences.

"One has to indulge," Fitz goes on. For a moment he considers giving away some of the details if not all of them, detailed description of his and Jemma's sexual intercourse, but such memories, as fresh in his mind as on the days they were made, feel precious and important. He could never share them, not for the world, and any association between his relationship with Jemma and his father has to be avoided. "If you know what I mean. Why go to a brothel when Jemma Simmons is all too happy to oblige?"

Alistair ignores him and says, "In this hard world, we cannot afford the luxury of what?"

"Of sympathy, father."

Fitz stops talking and steps closer. Rage is boiling inside him, rushing through his veins, and his heart beats hard in his chest. It pounds and hard, he can hear its noise echoing in his ears and he feels fifteen again facing his father and feeding him lies about Jemma and their relationship.

_ Don't think about it,_ he tells himself, _ don't think about it_.

Alistair's hand grabs the collar of Fitz's coat and lifts him up, his legs dangle in the air and his toes barely reach the ground and leave dark streaks on the clean floor.

"There is no sympathy," says Fitz.

"And we don't buckle to guilt or womanly sentiment either."

"I'm not. If there is indeed any sentiment or affection, then it's entirely on her side." Fitz pauses and laughs, it seems called for and needed, surprisingly enough he manages to do so. It's a harsh laugh, a cold laugh, and it echoes around the room making both the barmaid and Radcliffe shiver as they stand there motionless - impartial judges, silent and unwilling witnesses.

Fitz feels like a fucking toy soldier, ready to follow his father's orders without ever questioning them. He doesn't dare to do anything, least of all apologize, lest his father moves from one subject to the other and starts talking about Hannelore. One thing at a time, but his Alistair Fitz should never pronounce his wife's name ever again.

"It's all her." Fitz gestures vaguely and smiles mischievously. "She simply can't get enough of me. And you know what they say, mingling with the devil- It's one of the three accusations. Oh, she's fornicating with me alright. These country matters, as you call them, father, and Jemma Simmons' insatiable lust."

Their lust, really, though at this point and under these circumstances it hardly matters. His father just looks at him, studies him, and Fitz doesn't dare to move - too afraid the smallest detail will give him away.

Alistair Fitz likes torture, not necessarily a physical one. The psychological pressure he puts on his son, those couple of minutes before turning to violence, are the most enjoyable part. It's elating and gives him power, each trembling hand and sudden jump on his son's side creates a hype to last for hours. He saw them and Fitz is lying, he dares to lie when the truth is one: he saw them, studied them from beneath a tree in Jemma Simmons' own garden. They're the talk of a village and they're not talking about sex.

Disgust raises inside him at the thought of such a failure, his son so similar to his own mother, that emotional and lying whore. Making the beast with two backs with a witch would not be a problem, if it were for a matter of thrusts - quick and hard movements. It's about the tenderness and the careful and affectionate movements giving away womanly sentiment and making his son weak and pathetic. If it is his son and not someone else's, the latter option quite believable.

His son, so ready to be won over by feelings and emotions, just like his mother. He saved that witch’s soul once and now dares to defy him once more. Alistair lets Fitz talk on, enjoying his desperate attempts at justifying his behaviour. Pathetic, weak and ridiculous.

"Once they find out, and they will find out for she becomes reckless when she's aroused and hardly ever thinks straight," says Fitz. "The day of judgement shall come. Let her stare with horror into that vast perpetual torture-house for she that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall."

Hot, wet and slick. Jemma naked in front of the kitchen window, pleasuring herself. The two of them in an open field, Jemma on top of him, arching her back as his thrusts were just about to get erratic. The two of them in bed, cuddling at the end of a long day, soft kisses and bodies pressed together in comfort and peace. He can make fun of the sex, exaggerate and dismiss it, but his feelings will be hidden and safeguarded in his heart. And they won’t disappear or feel any less right or meant to be.

Then he thinks of himself sitting in her bathtub getting hard at the mere thought of having her there in front of him, albeit naked, together after ten years. Fitz thinks of all the lustful thoughts and dreams he’s had over the years, the part of him that always wanted it to be Jemma hot and ready under him. In his dreams, they professed their love to each other and kissed, went to bed: all sorts of other motions, as usually promised by marriage, and things that would derive people ill to speak. But he won’t say what he knows and that is that he’s as aroused as her and seeks pleasure while talking of hell, heaven, and the limbo. And the furies too.

“Don’t lie to me, son. Methinks you are enamoured of that witche.”

His father’s voice is grave, a threat, and he sees him lift his hand.

Fitz clenches his fists, knuckles turning white.

“Don’t snap at me. Boy.”

Fitz jumps, his hands shake violently and uncontrollably. It’s either the flat cap or the glass, but the cap lies further away so he just grabs for his glass and turns around. As he’s about to smash it on his father’s temple, the movement simple and with a perfect geometrical trajectory, his father raises his hand and Fitz is thrown against the wall.

Chairs fall at the passage of his body and he feels all air leave his lungs as his body makes contact with the red bricks and falls down on the floor like a dismissed marionette, discarded by the puppet master after one of those miracle-plays performances for children on market days. 

The glass smashes as it hits the floor and cuts his palm open, a piercing pain that spreads through him. He feels something wet on his neck, an uncomfortable sensation, but he doesn’t have the strength to lift his hand and check for it. His head feels like it’s about exploding and his hands are shaking, the familiar black fog makes its way towards Alistair, the whole room blackening. Night coming early.

“You don’t have it in you, son!” Alistair poses and spits on the floor. “Just like your mother. And don’t get snappy on me, don’t even try to defy me! You’re weak and if I wanted you hysterical and soft, I’d have left you with thy mother.”

And what a blessing that would have been, Fitz wants to scoff.

His mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood and it’s disgusting to swallow it down.

“There is no vulture in you to devour so many.” Fitz’s father says mockingly, tightening his grip around his son.

Fitz coughs and a wave of nausea hits him, bile piling up in his throat, he opens his mouth and a small glob of puke comes out, running down his chin and dropping onto his suit. Puke mixed with blood dripping slowly from his chin.

“I told you I wanted her on our side and there you go, falling for her. We were this close to having her! You don’t know who you are son.”

Part of him wants to joke that he’s had her alright. Multiple times. In multiple positions. And if they were to leave behind such carnal matters, then he’s pretty sure that Jemma likes him as more than a friend or she’d have sent him away weeks before.

His first thoughts tell him not to stand up.

He knows from experience that his father’s outbursts of anger hardly ever last long, maximal pain and impact in a minimum amount of time. When he was younger, he liked to imagine that it wasn’t him his father was angry at, he liked to imagine that it was not happening to him. Dissociation, a desperate attempt at escaping, safeguarding his conscience and his life. 

He used to dream that it was all a nightmare. That one day he’d wake up in his childhood bedroom, at his mother’s place, with the smell of rosemary coming through the windows. All the years spent with his father nothing but a bad dream.

His second thoughts tell him that it isn’t too late, he’s not a child anymore, he can do this, defy his father. It’s about proving a point to himself, to the world, and say that he wasn’t like Alistair, that he never just stood and watched. Who cares about the consequences, he’ll either be left alone or hurt even more - none of it matters.

“I know exactly who I am,” replies Fitz. He wipes the vomit from his chin and with shaking hands retrieves a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it.

“Then God help you if you stand in my way.” He pauses. “For it is better thou hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.”

As soon as Alistair disappears, Radcliffe runs to Fitz and helps him to stand up. For a moment, Fitz leans against one of the tables, long enough to allow his head to stop spinning and to find some balance again.

“You know you can take him down, Fitz,” says Radcliffe. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be my father’s son.”

“What if I told you that one day you’ll have to?”

“Then I’ll worry about it when the time comes.” Fitz pauses, taking deep breaths. “I don’t want to be him. All my life- I want to be my own person.”

“What if I told you that you already are?”

“Am I? Or am I just being ridiculous? This is nothing, Radcliffe.”

“All those years ago, I’m sorry I didn’t-”

“Never mind that,” says Fitz, cutting him off. It makes no sense to talk about the past, what’s done is done. There are plenty of things to regret, but the one thing that started it all. Not in a million years.

“Come home with me, Fitz.”

“Jemma,” Fitz croaks. “I must go to Jemma. I- I want to see her.”

There’s no one he’d like to see more. No other person whose company equals hers in such a delicate and dark moment. Let him go home to her, save what remains of the day from turning into shit too. A couple of hours of peace and comfort, quiet and happiness.

“Don’t,” Fitz tells the barmaid. “I’ll walk.”

He slams the alehouse’s door behind him into the street. The rain is a deluge and the sewers are regurgitating all the water, covering the city’s pavement with mud and diluted shit. He walks under the torrential rain and vomits three times, his whole body convulsing as bile and lunch come up in a smelly mix that burns in his mouth.

The rain enters his shoes as he stumbles through the rads, water running down his back and his flat cap sitting even flatter on his head. A simple solution he doesn’t want to use even though every bone in his body aches and he still thinks that the pain radiating from his right arm may be a bad sign, perhaps even an indication of a broken bone. The same spot as years ago: considering his luck, Fitz wouldn’t find it surprising.

By the time he reaches the forest, past the village and the glen, his black trousers are soaked and muddy, brown and grey spots on the fancy and tailored fabric, and it’s night. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still clouded: no stars and no moonlight, he looks like an ominous figure announcing the end of the world. Silently making his way, walking in the shadows, on a gathering of storms with his dusty black coat.

It’s the stuff of nightmares and he’s watched by Freya, the girl Jemma saved upon their first meeting, who looks at him through the window, holding a flickering candle close to her face. Her features look distorted by the ongoing game of lights and shadows and they make her look like a subnatural being, watching him, studying his every move and ready to intervene in earthly matters.

Fitz raises his hand to greet her and she nods back. When he turns around again the house is dark and silent and for a moment he thinks it to be a dream or his tired mind playing tricks on him.

As soon as he reaches Jemma’s door, he knocks on the wooden door. Violently, his knuckles hurt every time they make contact with the hard surface.

“What on earth happened to you?” asks Jemma as she opens the door. Her hazel eyes are filled with worry and bewilderment, while everything else - her face, her posture - betray a sense of coldness and calculation. She looks focused on survival, feral, ready to attack possible threats and avenge him.

Her voice too betrays bewilderment and there’s nothing he’d love to do more than hug her, bury his head in the crook of her neck and breathe in her clean and fresh smell, but there’s vomit on his jacket and he feels like he could collapse any moment. Fitz hopes that the impact between his head and the wall didn’t cause any serious and lasting brain damage.

“Some barmaid hit on me. Pushed her tits in my face and all of that. Offered her services if you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” says Jemma. “Can’t say I blame her, really. You’re a _ very _handsome and endowed young man, I would have tried to take you to bed even if we hadn’t been friends before.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

“And was she a nice and lovely barmaid?”

“I have no idea, there’s only you.” Fitz takes her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “There’s only ever been you and you’re not even that nice.”

“Will you tell me what really happened to you?” she asks again with slightly more emphasis.

“I had a not so pleasant encounter with my father,” replies Fitz as he steps inside the cottage.

“Are you hurt?”

“My ego is.” He pauses. “I don’t know. I hit my head and a glass broke in my hand.”

She places her hand on his cheek, caressing it with care and tenderness. “Let’s get you cleaned up and mended, shall we? I can run you a bath.”

“A bath would be very welcomed. May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

He shifts a chair back, its legs creek against the floor and he sits down, crossing his arms on the table and resting his head on them, There’s stars exploding behind his eyelids and a constant drumming of an approaching headache, it’s like he drank every bottle of whiskey in the country and more.

He is vaguely aware of Sonya nudging her head against his arm and Jemma emptying hot water into the tub, but it’s distant and he’s ever so tired that were it not for the unpleasant and poignant smell that clings to him and his clothes, he’d go straight to bed.

“Fitz,” says Jemma as she gently places a hand on his back. “The water’s ready. Do you need help? If you give me your clothes, I’ll wash them in the morning or as soon as there’s sun enough to dry them.”

“I think I can manage, thank you.”

“I’ve got some linen and you should really let me look at that cut. Doctor’s orders.”

He cracks a smile. “Doctor she.”

“That would be me. You know how it is-”

“It is best to do as you’re told or you’re going to use _ the _ voice again.”

She nods. “Come on.”

“Do the villagers or your patients ever say, no not the voice?”

“They all know that it’s best to do as they’re told. Children like to laugh about it, they’re a delight to be around. You should hear their happy squeals and gurgles. Do the voice, do the voice!”

“Sounds lovely.”

Real children with a reasonable chance of enjoying their lives, well most of them, as far as circumstances allowed it. He used to know what it meant to be peaceful, the hour spent in his father’s company overshadowing all progress, he could never dare to claim himself to be an expert.

He’d like children of his own one day and he’d like them to enjoy their lives, live without fear, or maybe he’ll screw their lives up like his father screwed him over. And then there’s his mother, he tries not to think about her.

“It really does,” he says and smiles sadly at her.

“Fitz, what happened to you in the past ten years?”

“Nothing worse than this,” he says, as he strips out of his dirty clothes and steps into the tub, water overflowing from its edges and onto the pavement. “Christ, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s just water, Fitz. It’ll dry.” 

Jemma looks slightly puzzled by his reaction as her lips tug into a tiny smile. She pauses, taking a sponge from the small cabinet next to the basin. “There’s no need to be this jumpy. What?”

“Aren’t you going to join me? I remember there being plenty of space.”

“No, I’ll sit here. After you brought me to your mother’s, you went away, disappeared, with your father-”

“I don’t want to discuss it, Jemma. And before you say anything it isn’t your fault. You know how my father is. And I’d do it again. I’d go through all of it again to save- you!”

They sit there in silence and he enjoys the warm water, feels his muscles relaxing and the pain slowly becoming duller. His slightly aware of Jemma sitting behind him, her hands massaging his scalp, washing his hair ever so gently.

“Can I comb your hair?” she asks. “Only, I’m afraid there’s some encrusted blood mixed with some mud. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“Of course,” he replies. It sounds like an excuse like any other, but he does enjoy Jemma taking care of him. It feels domestic, it feels good, it doesn’t feel like she’s accomplishing a task, like the ones for the village. Who is he to complain?

He hears her get up and watches her head to the bedroom. Her nightgown clings to her body and the gown dances around her ankles at every step.

“Is that?” he asks, pointing at the ivory comb in her hand.

“My mother’s comb, yes. I remember- Bobbi and I had to save money for ages and it still wasn’t enough. Papa paid a part of it or most of it, really, and we gave it to her for Christmas. Mama used to say it that it was her most prized possession.”

“I remember you talking about it. You and Bobbi had seen it-”

“In London. We went to see a play or something like that and we had to beg him to buy it for us. We promised him that we would pay him back as soon as possible. And we did, well, more or less.” She pauses. “That day, the day of the fire, I had it with me. I was angry at them for whatever reason and left the house with that comb on me. Don’t know what I was thinking, maybe, had I stayed at home... I could have saved them.”

Or she could have been killed too. Powerful, but not that powerful. As far as he knows, it all happened rather quickly as if every detail had been carefully calculated and programmed. Maybe even rehearsed. The only variant that had not been taken into consideration was Jemma being out of the house the moment of the attack.

“Or not. It’s too late to know.” She continues. “We’ll never know.”

“No,” he says and takes her hand, his skin slippery and wet against hers. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

By the time the water turns cold, he’s long stepped out of the tub. In his clean clothes that smell like her, that distinctive smell she always carried around - fresh and flowery with winter undertones - as they sit at the kitchen table, a word lifts itself into the air between them: Home. It certainly feels like it, and as for himself, he feels peaceful and quiet.

He feels the urge to confess his love, but there’s a feeling of dread at the pit of his stomach, consuming him, the things he said to his father- they’re true and he knows that his father’s threats are always meant to be taken seriously. It isn’t something he says to a spoiled child, momentarily putting them back in their place, it’s real and tangent. It’s a promise.

What if he gave Alistair Fitz ideas on what to do next? What if he put Jemma in danger albeit involuntarily? This isn’t the way. He spoke very badly of her, it feels like compensation for what he did and how it makes him feel

“Do you have something to drink?”

“What do you want to drink?”

Something for the pain. Something to forget. Ultimately, he says, “Something for the warmth.”

“I’ve got gin.”

“Gin will do.”

She gets up and he watches her as she moves in the small space. Suddenly, as he’s about to tell Sonya that he is in no mood for her games, she jumps on his lap and makes herself comfortable. A little smile cracks on his face and he doesn’t dare to pet Jemma’s familiar, no matter how much he wants to.

“Is that what it’s for?” asks Jemma, putting two glasses on the table and pouring some liquid into it. Generous portions he’s quite grateful for.

“The warmth?”

He shrugs and nods.

“Jemma?” He sniffs.

The care she puts in her simple gestures as she wraps a bandage around his hand is enough to water his eyes. Such care when all he did today was put her in danger, her attention and treatment feel undeserved.

It seems impossible now as they sit there at her kitchen table, clean clothes and a warm and purring cat on his lap, to have ever let her go and not to have had the courage to contact her sooner. Why spend years watching over her from afar when they could have had all of this? For longer? The mere idea of it coming to an end, one day, soon, sends him down an infinite and vicious spiral of desperation and grief.

“Yes?”

“I think I said something very foolish to my father,” says Fitz. 

He’s terrorized that his words will give Alistair ideas. His father acted worse for less: people looking at him the wrong way, Fitz looking at him the wrong way. It was foolish to speak about Jemma in such an indifferent and derogatory manner, especially now in such dark and uncertain times.

“Sush,” she replies, placing a finger on his lips. “Never mind that now, you need to rest.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I love you,” she gasps as his hand move up and down her back, gently caressing her skin.

She feels pleasure washing over her and buries her head in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, as she moves up and down. Slowly, her movements becoming erratic.

She ignores the three words that no amount of denial and silence will ever make less truthful peppering a trail of kisses on his sharp jawline before she captures his mouth and kisses him tenderly, a moan at the back of her throat.

It stands between them for a while, the look on his face- Jemma is quite sure that Fitz heard all too well and will now ask for an explanation any minute now. And what is there to say? How to explain? How to sort out her thoughts and find the right words, skip the inanities and reach for the larger thought. There will be a time, but not now, it seems as if their whole relationship has bad timing and it’s always too soon.

“Jemma,” he moans as his thrusts start to get quicker and erratic. “God, Jemma! I-”

She kisses him again, cutting him off. This is not the time for hasty confessions, for rewriting history because they find it disagreeable. Fitz grips her hips - his fingertips dig into her soft flesh and later may or may not leave a mark - and guides her fluid movements before she says his name and he feels his mind shut down as he comes. 

“Is it weird that I found that attractive?” she asks as she rolls off him, her heart pounding in her chest. 

“What? That you let me take control and I told you to kneel and-”

“That.”

“It was odd,” he says with honesty. “I do like it when you’re in control.”

Jemma laughs, leaning her head on his chest. He holds her close, their naked bodies warm and sweaty, and puts an arm around her shoulders before he kisses the top of her head. And he does, Jemma has something about her when she orders people around, that makes him want to do everything she asks for and take her to bed in the process.

“But you did like it? Earlier?”

He nods. “It was terrific fun. It was new.”

“I’d hate you not to feel comfortable, you just have to say it.”

“Trust me, should that ever happen, and I very much doubt it will, I’m going to tell you in time.”

“Good.” She pauses. “What?”

“Bugger, I wish we could spend the day in bed. I don’t want to move, I like being here with you and the rest of the world to be far away, out of reach. Just the two of us, here. I know mother is-”

“Then let’s stay here,” she suggests, pushing herself up on her elbows. ”We could always say we were sick or there was work to do. Hmmm,” she says, running her fingertips on his belly. He exhales sharply. “There is work to do here if you know what I mean.”

“Oh I know, I know exactly,” he says, pulling the cotton duvet to the side. 

The fresh autumn air hits their naked bodies and he watches Jemma straddle him. Her hair falling in front of her face like a curtain and she looks absolutely magnificent. It feels impossible to take his eyes off her, to look away, and once more he wonders how they managed to spend all those years apart; how they managed not to get to the point sooner. 

“You’re a wanton, Jemma Simmons,” he adds.

“You’re the one to talk.” She jokes, grinding her hips against him. “You’re worse than me.”

“But we cannot not go, Jemma. I promised mother-”

“I know, but it takes nothing to get there so we might as well delay our departure if only for a little while.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs against her lips. “Define little.”

“Enough time.” She laughs and leans her forehead against his. “Trust me.”

“Oh, I do, completely.”

“Good.” Jemma smirks and kisses him again.

He rolls them over, taking his time, and by the time they’re done, the morning sun shines brightly through the window, flooding the room with golden light. It’s warmer now but the air is crispy and smells of rotten apples and oozing raisin. 

It’s an Autumn smell with soft undernotes, mixing with the poignant smell of sex and sweat, it’s the smell of love and doom all at once like the sound of the nightingale - love-darkness and death-darkness, a temporary and peculiar tour de force. And isn’t that what their whole relationship can be reduced to?

“Fitz,” she whispers. “Will you help me?”

“With what?”

“Life, everything-”

“I thought I was already.”

“I’m sorry,” she says and kisses the tip of his nose as his arms wrapped around her shoulders and he buries his head into the crook of her neck, his stubble ticklish against her skin.

“We should get going,” he says.

“Soon.”

Things are changing, people don’t listen anymore, just as Bobbi and Hunter predicted it. Does he know? Jemma lacks the courage to tell him, she can handle it and if chaos is to come and they are travelling at lightspeed to heartbreak and grief than they deserve a moment longer where to stay safe in each other’s embrace. 

It’s everywhere and she doesn’t want to tell him because it’s unimportant and a ridiculous thing to worry about when she can use the voice and they’ll do her bidding in fear of contradicting her. 

Behind the surface, and she seems to see it quite clearly, they know who she is and what she does, they’ve known her for most of her adult life and part of them, infinitesimally small, still trust them. Unnatural or whatever one wants to call such matters, there really is no reason to worry. 

However, as they arrive at Hannelore’s the plain a sea of orange and yellow and the dead leaves cracking under their feet, people stare at them, they spit and reach for the closest piece of iron or salt. There’s no denial.

They walk quickly down roads Jemma knows quite well, in a village that saw her grow and mature as the years passed and her powers got stronger. Years of training under Fitz’s mother attentive care and instruction, the best teacher she could have asked for.

A trip down memory lane, the place has hardly changed with its white houses and red brick walls. Children playing in the street and feral cats sleeping amongst piles of leaves. Some of these children may as well be the offspring of some of her former playmates, girls she grew up with, girls who never quite managed to replace Bobbi or Hunter or Fitz, but whose company she enjoyed nonetheless. Old and worn out dolls, some of them liked to play witches, picking up flowers and letting them fall into jars of water. 

Sometimes, they sneaked into Hannelore’s kitchen, hoping to find some biscuits and they’d have a pick-nick on the grass and she’d tell them about Fitz and their eyes would light up in awareness that maybe she was fond of him like that, and her complete obliviousness. 

_He’s handsome alright, I’d marry him. I’d marry him and more__,_ some of the girls used to say and she had been so sure of her feelings, so wrapped up in the past not to nice. But Fitz! He had known before her. Everyone had: The girls used to say that it was nonsense and irrelevant when Fitz’s heart had place only for Jemma.

She had been allowed to be herself, to live, to have a life and see beauty beside all the death and destruction, there weren’t enough words to than Fitz’s mother.

“Mother?” asks Fitz, as he opens the cottage’s door and walks inside. A spotless place, packed with books and papers and unidentified knick-knacks that always gave the house such a welcoming and reassuring look.

“In the kitchen, one second.”

Soon after Hannelore walks into the small hall and greets them, her apron covered in flour. She hugs both of them tightly, holding them close and then says, “It’s good to see you again, both of you.”

“You too,” replies Fitz. He smiles softly at his mother, a sheepish and genuine smile that softens his features and make him look young and careless, off guard. “It’s been quite some time, I’m sorry.”

“Never mind that now.” Hannelore pauses, gesturing for them to come into the kitchen with her where she makes them sit at the old wooden table. “So how are you?”

“Well,” says Jemma. “It’s been quite a handful lately.”

“Can’t complain.”

“What happened to your hand?” says Hannelore, nodding to his bandaged palm. The linen is yellowish now, and there are still pink spots where blood soaked through the white fabric.

“Father, that disgrace of a person,” replies Fitz dryly.

“I’m sorry, my darling.”

“Why? You're not the one who threw me against a wall and never were. I think we’re both victims, mother, and neither of us is an accomplice.” He pauses. “I know you didn’t have it easy and that thing with Radcliffe- Come, let’s not talk about father now.”

He wants this to be pure and untouchable, Alistair out of it all and not mentioned. He’s had enough of his father to last a lifetime, doesn’t want to think of him or what could have been if all of them weren’t flawed individuals who did their best to live their lives and somehow be happy. This a place where Alistair and his cruelty couldn’t reach them.

“The two of you,” says Hannelore, her voice softens and she smiles at them with fondness and genuine affection, her eyes filled with adoration. “I wish you the very best that life can bring. You used to say that your future with her was dead.”

“You used to tell me to stop my havers,” replies Fitz.

They all laugh. It sounds like a wedding toast, Hannelore humouring her own son, something that traditionally should perhaps be done by Hunter. But there’s something about it, ruining it and slightly diminishing the humour, a sense of unease creeping up on them: it’s too early and the future is uncertain. It sounds as if Hannelore knows more than them about what’s going to happen next, depriving them of their own free will - the future already established.

Fitz sits down at the table with its irregular and slightly pending surface and it doesn’t take long for Jemma to take place at his side, sitting closer to him than necessary. Like two magnets, unable to leave each other’s side, the closeness never enough, a need to get more. Or like a natural space at their side, there for the other to fill - right and slightly inevitable.

“You still use this,” says Fitz, running his fingers on the small table he had once been so proud of carving. “I wouldn’t have thought.”

“Why?” asks his mother.

“Nothing, I’m glad that you like it so much. I remember being quite disappointed.”

“It’s a perfect table unless you put an apple at one of the ends in which case-”

“It’ll roll down on the floor.” Fitz laughs as his mother walks to him and ruffles his hair.

“We heard from Bobbi and Hunter,” he adds. 

“How are they doing?”

“They’re giving their marriage a third chance.”

“That’s the spirit, I say,” says Hannelore as she cuts some slices of bread. “Good for them. I think- they deserve each other. Yes, I think they do.”

“I think they wouldn’t be happy with anyone else, they’re too much to handle sometimes. But they do care about each other, no matter how many times they failed to show that.”

And Jemma believes every word of it and, if necessary, is ready to swear on it. Even Bobbi said it herself on one precious occasion, they are each other’s greatest ally even in the darkest of times.

“How are things in the village?” asks Jemma abruptly.

“What do you mean?”

“How are they acting? Bobbi says someone’s spreading poison, that it’s welcomed.” She pauses. “How are things here?”

“They’re great,” says Hannelore. “Why?”

“They say people are acting strange, something’s off. Remember when Jemma’s parents were killed in that fire?”

It’s hard to forget. For a moment they all sit there in silence, violently, and Jemma feels like screaming. A dark time, a throwback to the past, a moment of suspension of rules and complete anarchy. They cannot walk into that direction, she wants to say. They are not walking towards such a thing. Not again. Not this time. She won’t allow it.

There’s a long way from not wanting to listen to witch trials, to turning one’s back on years and years of cooperation. Witch-hunting starts from the authorities not from village people and there’s usually a very explainable reason behind them. Here, in the villages, they all know that cooperation is better than hatred. All the parties involved gain plenty of benefits from it, they're all equals in everyday life little does it matter that there’s a strong power imbalance, that there could be more.

Caution is the essence when dealing with witchcraft accusations for killing an innocent is never the option and therefore careful investigations are vital and have to precede any execution of an alleged witch. But this, how things are now, is merely an interlude to chaos and havoc and if things are to run out of control, then they will turn to violence and blood shall be shed upon the heaths.

Hannelore nods. “I know what you mean, but things haven’t changed at all here. They respect me and they do not fear me, I don’t think they ever saw me as a witch. They never saw me cackling.”

“Please mother, don’t make jokes about this.”

“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “All I can say is that they come here asking for help, some of the women leave their children for a couple of hours or ask me to watch over them. Then there’s nails to be cut and babies to deliver. Neither rain nor gloom stops them, they come with their bread or their cheese and I help them in exchange. It’s the balance that counts and things are balanced.”

“And you mean it?” asks Jemma. “You’re not just trying to reassure us.”

“Does it look like I’m lying?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” says Fitz. “I don’t think that I ever saw you lie in my life. Then again I- we didn’t spend much time together. Not after father took me with him.”

“You can ask around,” Hannelore replies defiantly. “But I need you to trust me on this, it’s better not to go around and stick your nose into other people’s business. They may be open to witches, but there’s nothing that guarantees the same openness to strangers and if they believe-”

“They know about me.” Sighs Fitz. “Hunter warned me about that.”

“People believe what they want to believe,” explains his mother. “All of us are perfect pretenders, we tell ourselves lies to make life bearable. I know that I’m not a woman of many words and I know that I should have- it was and has always been about the law of retaliation, with your father that is. You just had the misfortune to be born into this wretched family, into all the violence that drips down from one generation to the other. If only-”

“Never mind that, let’s not talk about it now.”

“Why not? Is this about Jemma?” Hannelore pauses, taking a sip of tea. “We may not have another chance.”

“Of course it isn’t about Jemma,” says Fitz. He takes Jemma’s hand, squeezing it tight and she smiles at him, hesitantly, her lips pressed together in a thin red line. “Why not?”

“Because it’s history, Fitz. Because we do not dwell on the past. The future is where it’s at. But I want you to know, that none of this was your fault. It was- it’s about people who didn’t handle their personalities particularly well. It’s about people who lacked the courage and morals to do what’s right. We were selfish, all of us, and it backfired on all of us. It backfired on you. For that I am sorry.”

There’s a sense of unease in him. His stomach ties and twists into a knot that makes it hard to eat and swallow. A million questions, more than he’d ever dream asking, more than his boldness and courage allow for.

He knows the story, as old as time, the one that drives so many narrative engines. He knows about his grandparents and the greed and the advantages, the countless sacrifices and all the things that followed. He knows them from brief explanations given by Radcliffe, but never his mother, and he knows his father’s version of the past thirty years all too well. 

Memories of a little boy, glimpses of them, most of them have a dreamlike atmosphere and now feel unreal and a simple thought at the back of such a young and innocent hero: no one should do that to anybody else.

“I survived, that’s enough,” he says, dismissing the matter in a couple of words, trying his best to sound cold and detached as a volcano of feelings erupts inside him. Most of them are contradictory and he doesn’t know how to untangle them and make sense of them, sort them based on rationality and validity.

Hannelore looks as if she’s about to say something, opening and closing her mouth, before she looks away, out of the window. A magpie flies by and not long after other seven: sorrow and a secret never told.

“Jemma, lest I forget, I’ve got a couple of books I’d like you to have. And I’ve got some personal belongings your mother gifted me when we were young, I thought you might like to have them.”

“Won’t you need them? I should hate to take them with me.”

“Not anymore.” Hannelore smiles. It’s a sad smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, distant as if her mind is focused on something else entirely. “And I’d like you to have my hat, you were quite the apprentice and I know you said you would never wear midnight after what happened, but I want you to have it nonetheless. You don’t have to use it, you can lock it in a drawer and never take it out.”

“What’s going on?” asks Fitz. His voice oozes worry, every syllable filled with panic and anxiety.

“Nothing,” replies his mother. “I’m decluttering. Cleaning. Tidying up.”

“Spring cleaning? In October?”

“Something like that, yes.” Hannelore pauses. “It’s good for the soul, makes this whole business feel complete. Over and done with, as they say.”

Jemma studies Fitz’s face and then his mother’s. There’s a daring look on both their faces, defiant even as if silently challenging the other to ask a question, the wrong one. It seems, now, that if those questions were asked, if doubts were allowed to surface and be voiced, then it would be easier. What a fine game of pretending, what a perfect display of little white lies that bare in them just enough truth so as not to be challenged and questioned.

Something final about Hannelore’s voice. Legend has it that witches know when they’re going to die, they feel it, and if it is true, if Hannelore knows something that they do not, then this whole business - having them for tea, giving away her things, apologizing and asking for repentance - makes it sound final. The last days of her life. It isn’t about the past and history, it’s about the lack of a future.

And if this is the end, if this is the moment their ways will part, then she understand Hannelore’s desire to enjoy herself, spend some time with her son and her former apprentice without having death and sadness stain it forever.

“Mother,” says Fitz.

“So,” replies Hannelore as she gets up, pushing her chair on the floor. “How about we go out for a walk and then I hand you the things I wanted to give you? They’re already piled up in my room, but should you see anything in this house that you want, anything that catches your interest, please say so. Although I’m afraid that some of the girls want to have the book collection.”

They spend the best and happiest couple of hours. Time flies and the sun lowers at the horizon, the afternoon light slowly getting fainter and dimmer. There’s something about the place, the peacefulness and tidy chaos of everyday life that always worked wonders: It’s the best place to get their minds off things, to feel alive and not scared at all, a place where everything seems possible.

It doesn’t last long. They part with tears and an uncomfortable silence, Hannelore’s face cracks for a split of a second as she hugs them both goodbye. Then she smiles, bravely and sadly, encouragingly even. The person Jemma remembers her to be.

“Before we go,” says Fitz. “I want you to know that I’m glad that you allowed me to have a childhood. You allowed me to make up my own mind and to decide for myself. The years I spent here, with you, were the best of my life and I never- not once did I feel like-”

“Shush now,” replies his mother, cupping his cheek. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Her words make it sound as if she spent precious time with Fitz trying to repent for past mistakes. How much history, Jemma wonders, between all of their parents and Radcliffe? And how much does Fitz know about it?

“Goodbye then,” says Fitz once more. “We shall see each other soon.”

“It might not be as soon as you think.” Hannelore smiles. 

Jemma takes Fitz’s hand and together they leave.

“I have some business to attend to,” says Jemma as she picks up her dark blue coat and ties her hair into a ponytail. A woman in the village close to her due date, the reason why they couldn’t have spent more time at Fitz’s mother, and she’d like to get there early, even though they just got back.

A couple of slightly curled strains escape the small ribbon and frame her face and Fitz gently pushes them behind her ear and cups her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I thought we could spend the evening together, that’s why we came back earlier than planned.” She pauses and kisses the palm of his hand, her lips lingering on his skin longer than needed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry too much, while I’m away. I’m sure it’s nothing. Will you manage?”

“Of course,” replies Fitz. “And I’m not alone, there’s Sonya with me. We’ll have a jolly good time together. You’ll come back later and find us best friends, no place in bed for you.”

“Now that’s a pity.”

“Is it?”

She shrugs dismissively. “Maybe so. I should hate not being able to sleep with you.”

Fitz smiles and kisses her, a quick peck on the lips that soon deepens as Jemma runs the tip of her tongue on his lips and he’s all too happy to oblige to open his mouth. It’s a soft and confident kiss that promises more, as soon as she’s back, though the temptation to just head to the bedroom and forget their mutual responsibilities is alluring and tantalizing.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe she’ll say those three little words again and they can find the courage, together, to discuss their feelings and leap into the unknown feet first without worrying too much about all the possible consequences. 

What a frightful sell not to have asked her sooner to repeat herself. What a frightful sell not being able to be honest himself. There they are by all means wanting to be honest and not quite managing too: history and fears standing in their way.

“I’ve got to go now,” she says as they stand with their foreheads touching, breaths mixing and a string of saliva between their mouths. Then she repeats with slightly more emphasis as if trying to convince herself or find enough motivation to go. The soft touch of his hands on her hips make such a small and insignificant sentence difficult to repeat. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I can look after myself.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she says, stroking his cheek. “If you need anything- If anything happens, if there’s any news, don’t hesitate. You can call me or walk to the village.”

“I’ll find you.”

“I know. We always do.”

He nods. “Jemma?”

She turns around, halting at the door. For a moment he’s tempted to tell her that he loves her, timing be damned, but such a precious and valuable thing, such powerful words, he’d rather say them out loud in a moment that deserves them, in a moment that seems more fitting than the present - both their minds elsewhere. 

They deserve that much, to have time and a future. To come back just to speak those words frequently, a gentle and mostly overlookable reminder that it is and never was about the sex.

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

She smiles and nods. Sonya meows behind him and hops on the windowsill as he closes the door and together they watch Jemma disappear into the woods, her figure merging with the shadows until she disappears out of sight and Fitz and the cat are left alone in a cold and lonely cottage, no escape from his thoughts.

The knock on the door is sudden, it makes him jump while he’s eating his dinner. Elation as the possibility that it might be Jemma creeps up in his brain. And if it is her, if she’s done, he’ll take her to bed and be honest. Forget the sex, he’ll tell her he loves her as soon as the door is open for they’ve spent months if not years trying to avoid the subject, they cannot waste any more time.

It’s a letdown, the wooden door, creaking on the old and rusty hinges, revealing Radcliffe bent over and bundled up in a red coat.

“Wha- what?” asks Fitz, his voice oozing with bewilderment sounds as flabbergasted as it gets.

“They found your mother,” says Radcliffe, his voice grievous and broken.

Fitz feels all air leave his lungs as a wave of nausea hits him. He stumbles, trying to reach for the table or the counter, lest he falls down on the floor like a sack of potatoes. His hand grip the edge of the table tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he whispers. “What have I done?”

“Don’t blame yourself, son.”

“No, no, no… I was there. I said… I should have been there. Jemma and I, we left early and- I could have stayed and-”

Fitz’s breath shakes as his thoughts go staccato. It’s difficult to find any coherence whatsoever, his mind blank. It’s a mix of memories dating back to his childhood, flickering images that are tainted by his father’s words and presence. An ever-present threat, no matter how much his mother pretended it not to be or tried to shield him from the inevitable.

It’s like the circle is finally closing around him, the lengths of his father’s rage revealing themselves at last.

“Please,” Radcliffe whispers in his ear. “It’s all my fault.”

He cannot see how that may be. Radcliffe has always been supportive, a friend. He’d have never put Hannelore in danger, calculated and careful behaviour, but his own mind so high on power and strength, inebriated by his own selfishness. Did she look worried? Did she know? He cannot recall, he remembers nothing. Reality overshadowed by such a dreadful accident.

“Where’s Jemma?”

“Out. She’ll be back tomorrow, business in town. Some woman is giving birth, I think.” Fitz pauses, maybe it is better for her not to be there. 

He’ll find a way to tell her in the morning or at midday or in the afternoon. Words seem feeble and wrong, not fully delivering his rolling and rapid feelings and that anger - primordial, overwhelming, irresistible.

“How did they find her?” Fitz asks, gulping down some bile that burns in his throat at its passage.

“I don’t think-”

“How?” He repeats with more emphasis, leaving no doubts about the nature of such an articulation. 

The whole world seems to tremble at his voice, Sonya looks at him, arching her back and hissing. Fitz ignores her. 

“I said, how did they find her?” asks Fitz. His voice sounds deeper and in the pallid moonlight his eyes look black and his sclera shot with blood. 

It’s a command that promises consequences, violent ones, if not met by a satisfying answer. His voice sounds like his father’s and perhaps the inevitable is now happening, he’s becoming just like Alistair and it’s disgusting that the death of someone close is the thing that is going to push him over the edge. Black smoke starts to lift itself into the air, moving quickly towards Radcliffe.

“Does it matter?”

“I command thee, speak!”

“Don’t-” says Radcliffe, he feels Fitz grip around his throat and starts tasting on the kitchen counter for anything he can use. 

He won’t use his powers, Holden Radcliffe promises it to himself as Fitz’s grip around his throat tightens, damn neutrality but it’s too late now and if he were to break the rules then he should have broken them fifteen years ago and do something for Fitz instead of standing by and watching. He’s a victim as much as accomplice, but maybe there’s time to make things right. 

His hand finds the handle of a frying pan and he grasps for it, holding his fingers tight around the wood. With all the strength he can muster, he swings his arm and hits Fitz on the head - there’s a soft thud as the copper surface makes contact with Fitz’s head.

“Wha-”

The world goes black.


	6. Chapter 6

It's Sonya who wakes him by crying and meowing and biting his hand - each time her teeth sink deeper and deeper into his flesh leaving red marks and a dull pain that spreads from his palm to his arm.

"Stop it!" says Fitz, turning his body around and pushing the cat away with one brusque and swift movement.

Sonya hisses at such a sudden movement, as she’s thrown off balance, and jumps on the other side of the bed, looking at Fitz. Her eyes look like reflectors in the dim light of the room.

For a moment he remains motionless and silent, staring at the wall and ignoring Sonya’s snout right in front of his face, then he says, "Sorry for that."

The other side of the bed is empty as he stretches his arm out, looking for Jemma. Cold and unslept in, the duvet is still tucked in and such an absence causes a sharp pain at his heart although easily explained away. He likes to wake up next to her, the best part of his day happening as soon as he opens his eyes. He likes the whispered good mornings and the sheepish smiles, cuddling or just lying next to each other for a moment longer before they both get up and start their day. Happy, like in his dreams. 

Fitz dreamt of bliss, of being young again, of being innocent and naive and not yet heartbroken. 

In the early hours of the morning, it's difficult to say what is real and what isn't: Maybe he and Jemma leapt years earlier, decided not to waste any time, confessed their feelings with promptness and honesty. Maybe, that other version of them - perfect and tantalizing - didn't spend months reducing their relationship to sex and lying to themselves and the other, neither fear nor history holding them back.

Or maybe he dreamt his mother's death and such sorry weeks and months are nothing but a product of his imagination, bad memories and worst fears triggered by guilt and a recent encounter with his father. Maybe Radcliffe never walked in and he won't find him in the kitchen. 

Instead, Holden will be at Hannelore's, miles away. Yes, he can picture them perfectly, drinking their tea and Radcliffe smiling at her with fondness, admiration, love. As if history hadn't happened, as if they had done it all right rather than dragging many other people into their own private misery.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and go and see if Radcliffe's still here?" he asks Sonya, his voice is muffled and barely audible, thick with sleep. "If he isn't and if there's no indication that he was here last night, we'll agree that this was nothing but a dream. My mind playing me tricks and fooling me. We can go back to sleep and we'll wait for Jemma to come back, then-"

Sonya ignores him and his request and violently nudges his arm with her paw. Her claws get stuck in his woollen jumpers and as she takes it away several strings loosen - looking like unfinished grey ribbons.

"What do you want from me?" Fitz asks again, his voice a crescendo, as he gets up, pushing himself with his elbow and sitting upright, his feet touching the cold floor. "This would be so much easier if you weren't a bloody cat."

Sonya meows again and scratches his hand, red lines appear almost immediately as his skin swells a little and burns. Fitz gets up, in anger, his steps heavy on the floor, until he reaches his pile of clothes and starts to get dressed in a hurry.

"If this is about food, I swear to God, I'll-"

"I'll help you," says Freya, miles away in a damp prison that is hardly ever used.

The girl looks like a vision in red and her hair catches the golden sunlight that shines through the small windows. There's something terrifying and otherworldly about her, innocent and cold all at once. There's cruelty in her indifference, in those light blue eyes that seem to promise immense horrors.

In that moment, of that Jemma is sure, the look of sheer determination and defiance on her face beget more terror than she or Fitz ever will. Were she not terrified already, she'd be scared to death for her future - her heart beating fast, pounding in her chest in fear of what shall become.

"Why?" asks Jemma as she grabs the rusty metal bars, her voice sounds more bewildered than she'd imagined as if such a small, simple and sensible act of kindness are more absurd and unimaginable than the situation she got herself into. "Why help the olde witche?"

"Because I rather like you, Miss. Simmons. You're a good person." Freya stops and smirks. "Now, will you please stop your havers? You're not old. You were born what? Five minutes before I was?"

"Jemma."

"Jemma," repeats the girl with a certain lack of conviction as if titles are powerful and a first name basis is hardly adequate. For a split of a second, she looks as if she's trying to sort out her thoughts, too many things to say in such a short time. Then she goes on and says, "You always helped us and never judged even though you could have even though some of us didn't make it easy. But there you were, doing your duty and helping them cut their nails and mending their ulcers. You helped me. I was foolish and you still helped me, I never thanked you for it."

"Your parents paid me," says Jemma. "It was hardly Christian charity that moved me."

Freya laughs. "I know, but you saved my life and now I owe you, which means that I'm going to save your life. What are bread and cheese compared to a life? You could have said no on the basis that I didn't listen to you, that I didn't go to you for help and took matters into my own hands. That night you came and I was-"

"Never mind that." Jemma exhales sharply, her breath cutting through the air and forming a small cloud of condensation in front of her mouth. So powerful and yet she stands there alone and frightened inside an old prison cell that smells of ale, pee and vomit. She may not live another day, unlikely allies are all she's got.

"You have to go and get Fitz," she says dryly.

"There's no time."

"No, you have to!" Jemma all but yells. “And you will do it!”

Frey looks completely unaffected and unbothered by the voice, a judging look on her face as if Jemma were a child who dared to make a fuss even though she was told not to. She looks ready to scold her, the thought is unsettling as it is entertaining.

"Don't use that voice on me, young lady!" Freya says at last.

Jemma feels as if she could course for half an hour. If the girl's intentions were genuine, then she'd know better than refuse to do what she's told. Better not to have been born than to appease her better, her first thoughts say. Then again, the voice of reason seems to reply, what does she have to gain from pretending to be on her side? 

"Fitz can help," Jemma tries again, trying to remain calm. "Trust me."

"But you see, there's nothing much he can do," replies Freya. "This isn't- Surely to goodness you'll think me mad. This isn't normal. It happened suddenly, overnight. I never heard anyone speak a word against you and then yesterday evening I heard them say that they wanted to imprison you on the basis of being a witch. This is all wrong."

It's sudden and against the rules, it goes against that carefully established truce. But it isn't odd, the girl is too young to remember the first years of peace and then her parents! The lack of trial, the lack of reasoning, the lack of proof. Everyone knows that witch accusations that start the craze hardly ever start in the villages: They're brought on by State and Church whose male members see their authorities undermined, too afraid that some common woman will know more and will be more capable than they do or are.

"Maybe so," says Jemma. "But if they were to enquire then... Fitz."

"What about him?"

"Fitz and I gave ourselves to country matters," she explains. Her voice sounds matter-of-factly despite the panic that is washing over her. Suppose someone saw them, they weren't exactly discreet after the first weeks of uncertainty and novelty. Suppose they decided to look at her life: She'd easily be accused and found guilty both of healing and of fornicating with the devil.

"You mean sex?" asks Freya. Entertainment oozed through her voice, from every syllable, and the question ends with a snort. "I never thought you'd be the one to speak in euphemisms. What next? Are you going to tell me that you and Fitz had a roll in the hay?"

"I do mean sex, yes. He's been living at the cottage for a while now."

"I know."

"What?"

"I know about the two of you. It seems pretty obvious to me what's going on and Fitz walks into the woods late at night, I saw him with my own eyes. I very much doubt he merely felt the urge to go on an evening stroll. If there was an urge that pushed him in that direction, then-"

"Enough."

"Put two and two together."

It seems, Freya wants to add, that Jemma is the first person Fitz ever goes to. Anyone with some sense in them, anyone who's ever been in such a position, can see it and knows better than to judge. Rules don't apply to Jemma, at least that what she always thought. Jemma is part of the woods not of the city nor of the village and the woods are a different country: lawless, with different morals, ancient. 

Jemma Simmons makes her own rules and they all allow her to because it's as needed as them respecting them. It's the balance that counts, her grandmother used to say, and witches are as human as most people, subjected to the same desires and hopes.

"Does anyone else know?" asks Jemma.

"I'm not sure. If they do, they never said or cared. Then again, the two of you are very open and honest about what's going on. You're reckless." She pauses. "Things are changed."

"You must call for Fitz."

"You don't have the authority to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. I don't answer to anyone but myself and there's no time to run and fetch him. There's no time to leave because if I do, you may as well be dead and I think that you rather enjoy being alive, you enjoy telling people what to do way too much for someone who could-"

Jemma looks at Frey a with her mouth half-open. Her feelings roll and rapid as her thoughts her staccato. Words elude her and she can't prioritize any of her thoughts.

"Enough with Fitz though," says Freya without even bother to finish her previous sentence. The girl stretches her neck and looks out of the window. "There won't be a trial, Jemma. They're... I'd say they're angry, but it isn't that. Their eyes look vacant as if under some spell or glamour, they're going to kill you, but I've found a way to buy us some time. I could-"

"Let them try."

"What?"

"They'll have something coming." Jemma pauses. She could leave if she wanted to, but she’s better than that and part of her wonders if this isn’t something she deserves. "You can't let me out, we need a new plan."

Freya shakes her head. "No." 

“Listen, I refuse to harm them. You say they’re under a spell and if they are, if you’re right, then we might be able to appeal to their reason. We mustn't let this run out of hand.”

“I don’t think they’ll listen to reason, Jemma.”

“We have to try.” Jemma pauses, her face looks thoughtful, worried. A long and violent silence forms between them before she goes on and says, “When I was young, I found myself in a very peculiar situation, I’d rather not repeat it. If anything happens, promise me that you won’t do anything rushed. Save your soul, that sort of nonsense.”

“I won’t leave you. You helped me once and I help you, we’ll be even and then we’ll part ways and never speak about it again. It’s the balance that counts and I don’t want you to turn up at my doorstep ten years from now, you and Fitz… You’re both trouble and I like to find trouble by myself rather than having it brought upon me by someone else.”

“Alright then. Now, go!”

"I'm going, I'm going. Don't worry," says Fitz as he opens the cottage's door. Sonya runs out of it and then down the path that leads to the street. 

Fitz closes the door behind him, waiting for the loud clack of the iron lock falling into place.

"If you could just-"

But Sonya runs on with quick and fluid movements, a dark shadow in a sea of green. Fitz presses his hand on his head to hold his flat cap in place and starts running after her. The gravel road rattles and rushes under his feet and a small cloud of dust lifts itself every time his heel touch the ground, creating small brown streaks of dusty residues to form on the cuffs of his tailored black trousers.

The entire forest looks threatening and unfamiliar as if it changed overnight or in their absence. It makes him feel unwelcome and it's everywhere: in the air and in the appearance of such a familiar scenery he learned to call home not so long ago. The tall trees are dark outlines against the golden sunlight that filters through their leaves - not enough to warm the air. There's too much black as if the whole place was in mourning, the absence of colour makes it look nightmarish.

Fitz follows Sonya through the trees, away from the main road, passing over knotty roots and the muddy ground, slipping a couple of times and losing his balance on some frozen spots he should have paid more attention to. The bandage around his hand muddy and brown, the dirt makes his wound burn. 

The cat doesn’t care, each careless slip is met by a meow of protest and her running back to him, urging him to move on as much as a cat can do. And he feels stupid to follow the orders of such an animal, even though history and the last couple of months have taught him better and the distress in Sonya’s eyes appear unmistakable now. 

She’d never fool him, would she? And there’s the business with his mother and Jemma’s disappearance, though the latter may be a result of childbirth and long labour - not the first time or the last time either, there’s not much to worry about. But times are unsafe and unpredictable, he feels anxious and jumpy and watched, a pair of eyes on his back as if someone is following him, studying him. 

Fitz feels as if he’s going mad. He feels his lungs burn and his throat getting drier and drier and yet there’s no chance to stop, no time to stop, and he can’t think of anything or get rid of the sense of unease growing inside him.

Fear fills the air as much as panic, rage and disbelief do. The wind howls loudly and there’s smoke slowly lifting itself into the air, impregnating it, making it difficult to breathe. It fills Jemma’s nostrils and her lungs, triggers memories and takes her back through the years to her childhood, coming back to her destroyed home and the smoke irritating her eyes, mixing with tears and that one primordial scream as rage grew inside of her, darkness bigger and bigger, overwhelming and eating her soul. 

She stands there trying not to show any feeling, cold-hearted and unaffected as she walks with her head held high. The rope is harsh against her skin and she tries not to move her hands too much to avoid for the coarse fabric to scratch against her skin, irritating it and cutting it. No fear and no panic, though emotions are there as she looks herself around, trying to spot Freya’s red figure or Fitz with his ugly flat cap and his coat, moving through the crowd with fluent movements, bringing a gathering of storms with them. 

“Rosemary is for remembrance. Between us day and night, wishing that I may always have you present in my sight,” sings Jemma under her breath, trying to gather up some courage. 

Her voice is shaking and hoarse and comes out in a whisper. Dressed in blue, she is that very witch, though it seems as if she should have worn midnight on this day that could just as easily end with her own funeral. And yet, if the stories are true, then she would know whether or not she dies and it seems rather unlikely that she’s destined to die in such a horrid and dreadful way when there’s so much unfinished business waiting for her at home. 

Memories flood her brain. Memories of childhood, glimpses of it blooming flowers and the smell of freshly baked bread filling the house, her father’s baritone voice and Bobbi running around. Fitz carrying her in his arms and laying her on his childhood bed ever so carefully, whispering into her ear and their lips brushing for a split of a second. Hunter and his jokes and Sonya’s warm body next to hers at night.

“And when I cannot have, as I have said before then Cupid with his deadly dart doth wound my heart full sore,” she says. 

Her voice fills the air, carried by the wind through the open plains. It seems to echo and filters in all the creeks and cracks. Animals hear it and come out of their nests and dens hesitantly and curiously, slowly making their way to the mass of people but standing at a safe distance. They’re silent spectators and witnesses to such precedent horror: people no longer having the faculty of their own minds, puppets in someone else’s hands. Their eyes look vacant, death, void of all humanity. They move with effort, rigidly, as if their limbs are made of wood. The most terrifying thing, this isn’t poison, it’s bigger than that. 

Bigger than her, bigger than Fitz, some odd and cruel plan that is being executed to perfection: hate dripping ever so slowly, enough to leave space for doubts and a long string of what-ifs, enough to do the trick and leave enough space in their minds to slip in. She knows how these things work, lived it. She knows how it feels to slowly lean into it and embrace it. Been there, done that. But there’s good in all of them, of that she’s sure. Is it worth dying for? Her first thoughts ask. 

“I’m not going to die,” she tells herself. “Not today. I refuse it.”

So many things to do. So many things to tell Fitz. Play with Sonya again and talk to Bobbi, argue and bicker with her, tell her she was right. Joke with Hunter and make Fitz blush by speaking in innuendos and inciting Hunter to go on and laugh until there are tears in her eyes and her ribs hurt. Live and be young and honest!

Counter and conquer that slow drip, drip, drip of hate and fear.

Two magpies fly high against the sky, screaming. Bringers of news of fair and foul. Two magpies for joy, giving her hope.

Sonya leaves the woods, back into the sunlight and stops as if to turn around to look at him. Fitz stumbles over the last couple of feet that distance him from the cat and stops next to her, his hand on his heart. He feels as if his chest is about to explode and there are droplets of sweat rolling down his back, he feels them and their ticklish sensation as they make his shirt stick to his skin.

“What now?” He asks, panting. “Will you tell me what the hell is happening? Will someone please tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” 

Fitz’s voice echoes around, louder and louder. It sounds like a landslide, like mountains collapsing, earth sliding down. An angry voice filled with terror and the fear that this is one of Sonya’s tricks for that bloody cat never liked him anyway. Above him, the sound of birds, flying away ever so quickly and a magpie staring at him from a rock, mockingly looking at him, a magpie coming from the left and announcing sorrow. 

“I swear-” He says, but Sonya resumes her walk and there’s nothing left to do but follow her. If this is nothing then he’ll never look at that bloody cat ever again. 

“What are ye efter?” He pauses. “What do you want now?”

He’s met by a figure in red at the end of the woods, the hood darkens the face and from a distance, he thinks it to be Radcliffe. But there’s blond curls and an air of indifference and the person looks incredibly young. It takes him a moment to recognize her, too exhausted and tired, his brain fails to connect memories and new information.

“There you are,” the girl says. “I’ve been waiting for you, you took your time.”

“You’re the girl Jemma helped all those months ago.” He pauses and looks himself around. “Wha- What’s happening?”

“They’ve got her.”

“Who?”

“They’ve got Jemma.”

“What do you mean they’ve got Jemma?”

“Christ, you’re thick! What do you mean they’ve got Jemma,” Freya mocks him, her impression of him spot on. “Jemma was meant to deliver a baby.”

“I had no idea she was pregnant,” he jokes.

“Gaun'ae no dae that?” asks Freya dryly. “Jemma was meant to help deliver a baby.”

“I know!”

“Will you please shut up, Fitz!” 

Her voice echoes around them, through the air. There’s something chilly in it, something terrifying and nightmarish that sends a shiver down his spine. Fitz looks at the girl in disbelief and bewilderment. It’s like the voice Jemma uses, but worse, something in it promises violence and havoc, chaos, the end of the world itself. Unleashed fury storming and raging and boiling, he doesn’t dare to open his mouth or look away. He’s scared for his life.

“Good.” Freya pauses. “Jemma was meant to deliver a baby and she did, a young boy as healthy as it gets. Damian, they called him. Then they came and took her sometime around three in the morning. She said to go and get you, I did.”

“You sent that bloody cat!” Fitz yells.

“She’d have gone anyway! I couldn’t leave Jemma alone.”

“You-”

“Freya.”

Interesting, he thinks. Named after the goddess of war, death and seiðr. He takes a deep breath, trying to make sense of his thoughts and find the most important things to say, the one he has to say first, though judging by the girl's attitude whatever words leave his mouth, they’ll be wrong.

“Freya. Where is she?”

“In the glen, opposite to the village.”

“Are they going to hold a trial?”

“Really? Are you making fun of me?”

“What?”

“Are they going to hold a trial?” she mocks him. “Does it look like they’re going to hold a trial, Fitz? Do you really think that they are going to hold a trial? This isn’t them. You must think me to be mad.”

“No, I do not. What do you mean?”

“They’re not- them. I know these people, Fitz. These aren’t-”

“Take my hand.”

“What?”

“My hand - take it,” he repeats, stretching his hand out and waiting for her to take it. When she does, he closes his fingers around hers, her sin ice-cold, and grabs an unwilling Sonya who wiggles in his arms and hisses loudly. Together they step through space and time, and back out again, followed by a cloud of darkness that becomes the universe, an entire day passing in the matters of hours.

They look at it from a distance, Jemma walking with her head held high through a silent crowd, her hands tied behind her back. He wants to yell her name and intervene, but takes a deep breath and then looks at Freya.

“Do you two have a plan?” he asks.

“Jemma said she’d do it herself.”

He scoffs. Typical of Jemma, though he doesn’t trust her with it. The age-old question there once more. It’s his soul or hers, he won’t allow her to trespass a limit just as he didn’t allow it all those years ago. 

He’s angry, it washes over him, there’s black fog getting thicker and creeping forwards, his whole body twitching. It’s playing with fire and he leans into it so naturally that it makes him wonder if this isn’t what he was always destined to become. A rageful man just like his father, drunk on power and superiority, he feels as if could kill them all.

He feels Freya’s cold grip on his arm: Her fingers closing around it and her nails dig into his skin. A sharp pain growing in intensity, spreading from his wrist where the girl’s fingers hold him tight. An ice-cold touch.

“It’s not up to you,” she says ominously. 

“You can’t tell me what’s up to me and what isn’t,” he says, his voice a sharp whisper. They’re wasting time and there’s Jemma getting onto a wooden podium, all eyes turned on her. “I’m the devil’s son, I don’t answer to you.”

“Watch me,” she replies. Then, in nothing but a whisper, she adds, “You shall dance to whatever tune I sing. You cannot play judge, jury and executioner or there shall be consequences.”

Freya’s voice sounds like a promise as his heart beats hard in his chest, pounding. It’s exactly like ten years ago, only this time it’s different, too many people held under a glamour, dancing with the devil. He’s not sure he can do this and time is running up.

Somewhere a church bell rings, each gong stretches itself to eternity and seems to last a lifetime. Time feels as if it stopped long ago, everything is moving in a quagmire, dragging itself painfully slow while life goes on trapped in a limbo. Scared, Jemma does her best to clench her jaw so as not to have her teeth clatter. 

So this is how it felt to be on the other side all those years ago and now she wishes she could apologize to them for everything until there are no apologies left in the universe. An eye for an eye, they killed her parents and she let herself go, but anger never fixed things and it didn’t make her parents more alive. 

A whimper escapes her mouth and half a sob. Maybe she should have come up with a plan while Freya was there, that girl sure knew how to make one collect one's thoughts. And she can’t think, too many people, she doesn’t know them all and she wouldn’t know how to start to appeal to their humanity. 

This is wrong, the only thought in her head, echoing and getting louder, she should have recognized the signs and paid attention, talked to Fitz or Hannelore or Bobbi. Even Hunter would have done, another person who knew how to make people collect their thoughts and get some sense into them.

She remembers making a baby cry, such a small and weak person, the noise erupting suddenly and unexpectedly, a direct appeal to her conscience. If she were to cry, would they notice? She hadn’t, the crying and vulnerability but a distant thought in her mind. Would anyone care?

The wooden boards are wet and old under her feet. A man is walking behind her and she hears him take out a pair of scissors messily, clumsily, pulling her hair, the old and rusted blades cutting through her hair with difficulty, way above her shoulders. Tears spring to her eyes as she feels vulnerable and exposed, row, not as much for her tainted vanity, but all that’s to come. This humiliation only getting bigger, this is the beginning, these sort of things always start somewhere.

They walk closer through the people who barely react to their presence. In a trance, bewitched or enchanted, under a spell. Like Hunter said, though such passiveness could hardly be compared to his friend’s stories of hatred and mistrust. 

“She needs to scream,” says Freya.

“What?”

“She needs to scream,” the girl repeats with more emphasis, though it means nothing for he still stands there and looks at her in bewilderment. “It's a common belief that a witch can be discovered by pricking their skin with needles, pins and bodkins because they won’t feel pain or bleed.”

“That’s nonsense and Jemma _ is _a witch.”

“But she’s also a person. As human- as human as the rest of them. Knowing Jemma she’ll stoically stand there, but she needs to scream and let herself go if only this once.”

“I’ve seen this before,” he blurts out. “Not, well, this, but similar.”

“When?”

“Ten years ago or something.”

Freya goes silent and looks herself around. On the podium Jemma is shivering and looks terrified at the sight of the needles and bodkins, her face pale as white as a sheet. Her eyes meet Fitz’s and they look at each other, studying each other carefully as their own desperation grows.

_I’m sorry _ , he mouths. _ This is my fault. _ Though he cannot be sure she saw it and understood, he knew it would happen and it is his bloody fault like his mother’s death is and everything else that’s wrong in the world. 

He feels old and exhausted, too many things happening at once. All he wants is to save her and apologize, tell her he loves her and never meant it to end like this. He should have told her, they should have left, travelled the world to escape from his father.

Jemma shakes her head.

“Nettle and yarrow!” Freya all but yells, her whole face lighting up in ecstatic delight. “We can use the pyre to burn them.”

“What?”

“He that holdeth this herbe in hys hand with an herbe called Mylfoyle, for noseblede, is sure from all feare and fantasye or vysion,” she says. “_ The Boke of Secrets. _ Only- The problem is that yarrow grows in spring and-”

“Jemma may have some back at the cottage.”

“And you're sure that you can recognize it?"

Fitz raises an eyebrow. "No, but I can read."

"That trick you do with the portal, how fast can you do it again?”

Fitz disappears.

“Please,” Jemma whimpers. “You don’t have to do this. This isn’t- You have to wake up.”

The man looks at her but doesn’t seem to see her, impassively carrying out instructions. She flinches when the needle pierces through her skin and she bites her tongue so as not to scream. Do something, she thinks, you have to do something. But suppose she’ll make it worse and lose control, there’s no one to assure her that it won’t happen again and this time she may not be so lucky and kill them all. 

All these people. After everything she’s been through she still believes they are good, capable of good, for this isn’t them and there has to be something to appeal to. And Fitz! Freya, bright young thing that she is, she’ll find a way. Is this what it felt like to not take a side? This indifference and endurance though by no means she could claim to be an expert.

“This isn’t real,” Jemma whispers to herself. “None of this is.”

Then she turns her head around so as to look the young man standing beside right into his eyes and says, “I helped your sister give birth to the twins, you were so afraid and happy to become an uncle, you told me that you wouldn’t mind being a father one day and blushed furiously.”

Nothing, but a small lingering. An infinitesimal part of a second.

“You and your mates used to smoke tobacco, I don’t know where you got it, but you’d sit there at the very beginning of the woods on that old tree that fell down and is covered in moss, and you’d wave at me passing by, half delighted at the thought of doing something you weren’t allowed to do, half scared because I could give you away.”

“You never gave us away,” the man says almost mechanically. “You could and never did, Miss.”

The smell of frost and rotten apples and softer undertones of spring mixing with the harsh smell of smoke. For a moment she thinks it to be a dream or a hallucination induced by pain, even though the pain is not that sharp and there’s barely a drop of blood on her white sleeves. But she can’t feel her wrists anymore, the pain dull and everlasting, she’s trying her best to shut it out and not think of it, focus on something else instead. 

A screams leaves her mouth and her legs tremble, she feels like a sack of potatoes ready to fall onto the floor. She clenches her fists and closes her eyes, there’s a storm coming, she can feel it inside her raging all that power and energy and she hopes there’ll be rain to wash all of this away and bring new life and hope and sunshine, this all of it, nothing but a nightmare. Smoke and ash, filling her lungs making it difficult to breathe.

A confused crowd looks themselves around, panicking at the scenery in front of them, the blazing and raging fires of the pyre and the unnatural darkness.

“Go home!” Fitz’s voice echoes around the plain. “Go home! There’s nothing to see here.”

He runs up the podium to Jemma, fumbling with the rope around her wrists, trying not to think of the hurt and the feeling and his anger. He feels tears watering his eyes and his voice his broken she he says, “Jemma.”

“I didn’t- I couldn’t-” she tries to say, but words and thought desert her, shock washing over her at once. “I’m sorry, Fitz.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“You told me that- it wasn’t them.”

“I know, Freya told me.”

“She found you?”

“Sonya did.”

Jemma lets out half a sob and half a snort. “You found me. The three of you found me. For a moment I thought I’d be left on my own and I couldn’t- I would never- There’s something else, Fitz.”

She buries her head in the crook of his neck, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. They stand there in silence, vaguely aware of the crowd that is slowly leaving, of the raindrops that are falling and Freya and Sonya looking at them. It all seems far away, the whole world reduced to the two of them fastened in their embrace.

His hands cup her cheeks again, his thumbs gently caress her skin. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “It’s over.”

“No, it isn’t. This can’t be it, too easy. It doesn’t make sense so it can’t be over.” Jemma shakes her head, holding him tight as a wave of dizziness hits her. “But for now let us pretend it is, my dear. I have to tell you something. It’s important.”

He freezes fearing bad news: that she’ll leave, that she’s tired of it, that she blames him as much as he blames himself, that she wants to spend the rest of her life alone to recover and never hear from him ever again. Maybe Freya is right and combined they cause too much trouble, too much conditioning and too much history that combines into one explosive mix. If it’s time and space she wants, he’ll give it to her. Anything she asks as long as he knows that she’s safe and alive.

“I love you,” she whispers, carefully articulating each sound. “I should have told you long before. I love you and I want to go home.”

“Me?”

“No, uncle Tom Cobley. Do you see anyone else here?” She snorts. “I’m tired, let’s not do this.”

He kisses her forehead, his lips linger for a moment longer. A warm touch as they hold on to each other tightly, as if afraid that the other is just to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” says Fitz. “I’ve waited so long to hear those words, I can’t believe I’m hearing them.”

Half a lie, she gasped those three little words into his ear the day before. But this is different: honest and unabridged, no need to pretend it didn’t happen. For the first time in a long time, it’s a pity it had to happen on such a dreadful occasion.

“I love you,” she whispers again, her voice muffled by his coat.

“Love you too,” he replies with so much conviction that it sounds as if he’s the one who said it first.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *BBC lady voice* this chapter contains scenes of a violent nature which some <strike>viewers</strike> readers may find upsetting.

Somewhere a church bell chimes. Each gong seems to last a lifetime, an eternity, stretched to infinity and beyond as leaden circles fill the air everywhere. The sound echoes around the village where its inhabitants are peacefully sleeping, the last two days nothing but a nightmare: to have their faculties taken and their bodies not theirs to control, two things they had always taken for granted.

Never such innocence again, they looked into a horror house and will do their best to forget, but the presence of supernatural beings and such inhuman cruelty will always be there at the back of their minds. A dream, nay a nightmare, but not really: history, remembered lest they forget.

A figure dressed in red and covered by a plumaged cape lights a candle. The match head cracks against the striker twice before it finally lights itself and the flame crackles and dances on such a small piece of wood and the air smells of sulphur as the light is carefully protected by a cupped hand. Candlelight that makes everything appear softer and eerie, comfy and terrifying at once for who knows what kind of otherworldly creatures hide in the darkness. The stuff of nightmares.

Out of the house and into the empty street, headed straight to the woods. There's no one around to see and if there was someone, they wouldn't recognize: a face, familiar and foreign all at once. The mannerism is different, there's purpose in it, and the cold and cruel smile on their face promises inescapable reckoning, havoc and destruction. A certainty of the end of the world, it will look different in the morning, foreign, no matter the outcome, and they're all going to feel it too.

A bell chimes and each toll echoes inside the woods, deep into the forest as if it were nature natural heartbeat. The woods look and feel as alive as ever, monstrous and welcoming, filled with secrets that shall forever be safely kept by those ancient trees. No man's land. There are no rules, it's a lawless place untouched by formalities made up by men. A different country, foreign, where things are done differently and people live closer to the natural world than they may do elsewhere.

Every time the clapper touches the mouth, causing it to vibrate, Fitz takes a step on the frozen ground that leads to the glen. The earth is cold, slippery and knotty. Unforgiving and uncooperative, it looks as if it were an entity of its own, refusing to side so as not to repeat mistakes made by others. The whole universe is balanced on a sensible fulcrum and every single outcome is equally possible.

The chiming seems to get louder and even slower as it starts to reach the end. Only a few gongs left and they make the whole world vibrate and crack as the veil between worlds begins to fade. The grass that covers the glen is covered in frost and all around it as if creating some kind of border, there's hemlock - the poisonous herbaceous plant stands proudly, unaffected by anything. It's the plant of witches and devils alike and they say that if one feeds on it too much, they will fall asleep and seem to be dead to any person that passes by.

A tall and slim figure dressed in red, a splash of colour in the night. Regret, resentment and hate mix and impregnate the air as soon as the man steps into the circle. No fear, but guilt ever so poignant and washing over him in waves. How many lives destroyed because of earthly matters, how much horror and heartbreak that could have easily been avoided, the course of history changed forever.

He's not sure whether or not he'd do it all again, for those sporadic moments of bliss, but to have loved! To have experienced such human feelings, that is now the only light. Soon it'll be over and buried in the past and they'll all have what they deserve. They had it coming. They chose all of it themselves, deviating from rules as old as time.

The church bell finishes with its tolls just as two lonely travellers on horseback pass by the church. The air is still vibrant as they see the glimpse of a figure dressed in blue and a small animal, maybe a cat, following behind. They're quick and their movements are fluid, effortlessly, confident. They take up place, something that in daylight would perhaps invite those blocking their passage to step aside so as to kindly let them pass. They're like shadows, part of the night.

Later, away, in another county, the story will be recorded as follows: there met them a woman in strange and wild apparel, resembling creatures of the elder world. The stuff of dreams, legends and myths. The kind of stories that are alluring in cities, eyes wide open during each telling, but cause villages to spit and touch iron. There's no way to say whether it's white or black witchcraft, better be sure.

The most sceptical will say that there is no such thing as witchcraft at all, but there will always be something in those stories: a grain of truth, something that makes people want to believe. Of one thing, however, those two travellers can be sure: it is better to leave, move on, gallop away headed to their destination which they will reach hours earlier, for such ungodly sights promise but one thing. Chaos.

And then, violent and terrifying silence. It is filled with expectations and possibilities. It's uncomfortable and heavy. There's something intimidating in it, oppressive, something that would normally shy people away. It's a silence that promises no good things and blood, blood that will soak the ground and make things right again.

The air is filled with the smell of blood, rust and iron. It's a strong and harsh smell that impregnates the air. It's nauseating and pushes animals away rather than bringing them closer, luring them in. It's repulsive and rotten and promises nothing good: better to stay away and retreat into the forest, into the darkness of night and the shelter of trees. Chaos, trouble and revolution, the natural order of things turned upside down.

Time and space are both far away as everything stops at once. Liminal time when everything seems to fade, marked by an explosion of lighting that floods the glen with unnaturally bright white light, creating long shadows and altering familiar places that now look foreign and hardly known. The longest and most distorted shadow of all cast by the girl in the plumage cape who stands fierce and tall, in defiance and control.

The goddess of vengeance there to make things right, restore balance and guide such insignificant puppets for the rest of their lives. The universe sings whatever tune she decides it to sing, the sun and the moon under her control, the tides and the winds and the law: both the natural and subnatural one.

Such an immense responsibility given to such a young person, but they are cold and aloof, completely disinterested in earthly matters. They won't get involved, it's destiny, and they have no intention to: they're above it, winning where their predecessors so miserably failed.

"Father!" Fitz all but yells as he steps on the frozen grass that cracks under his shoes.

He turns around, too quickly, the motion throws him off balance and makes him dizzy, the whole world spinning around him. He plants his feet firmly on the ground, standing motionless and silent as his voice echoes in the air, as he feels watched, as his feelings boil under the surface, like a volcano about to erupt. There are no certainties tonight, no certainties but one: no matter how it ends, he will kill his father and end it all.

"Father!" He yells again, louder and louder, his voice sounds like thunder. It's chilly and cruel, carrying promises. Anger washes over him in waves as he thinks of the years of abuse and horror, that never-ending torture and all the violence. An innocent child paying for sins that were never his to atone.

Animals wake up even though it's getting darker as if the world was ending and darkness was becoming the universe. No moon and no stars, just emptiness. Those very animals that slowly open their sleepy eyes, called by a familiar voice, do not dare to leave the warmth of their nests and dens and go out into the night to look what's happening.

They don't care, reluctant witnesses that are tired of being dragged into a cosmic game - neither winners nor losers, it won't matter if they find themselves on the board along with everyone else. They won't shape destinies.

In the morning, the world will look different: brighter, softer, filled with hope and rightness. But for now, in the darkest hours of the night, right before dawn, the world is black and chaotic, filled with death and terror and fear. They say that blood will have blood and never was a sentence more truthfully spoken. It's a promise and blood will flow, paint the grass red and filter in the ground, soaking it to its very core.

A raven screams as it flies low, between the trees.

"Alistair!" Holden Radcliffe's voice begets terror. It's a voice that would make demons run, force them to obey his others because he's a good man finally going to war.

It's up close and personal. He's filled with hatred so profound and unrestrained that he feels his entire stomach twist and turn into a tight knot that fuels his actions, incites him to proceed.

There's a subtle knife in his hand and he holds it with more conviction and less hesitance as he speaks again and says, "Alistair! You useless and pathetic son of a bitch!"

Years of repressed feelings come to the surface at once, shaking hands and twitching features in this, the greatest display of humanity since the beginning of time. Thunder rolls and rumbles, louder and louder, whistling, and shakes the whole world that trembles at such a powerful display of nature. Everyone stumbles at the sudden noise so piercing and unsettling but for the cloaked figure at the edge of the wood, sheltered by some trees. Cold and caring all at once. Innocent and vengeful, she remains motionless and silent.

"Father!" says Fitz once more as the air gets darker, pitch black. It's hard to see anything without any light and he himself is guilty of it.

Fitz takes off his flat cap, holding it tight. The blades sewn into the front of the bunnet are there, ready to be used. Pity for the lack of daylight, he'd like to see his father see exactly what's coming at him.

As soon as Alistair appears, Fitz tries to run towards him, with every intention to harm his father if only a little bit, but before he can even make a step, Radcliffe flings himself at Alistair with the subtle knife held in front of him. The two men collide, fastened in a deadly embrace.

"You bastard," says Radcliffe, pushing the knife deeper into Alistair's chest and trying to ignore the excruciating pain that comes from his.

"You can't kill me, Holden," Alistair mocks him. "You can't and never could."

"Never mind that," says Radcliffe. "The satisfaction is enough."

Alistair laughs. "You! You always wanted to take my place, didn't you? Hannelore, my own son Leopold. What else, huh? What else! But this going to end. Tonight and you're going to die."

"You're pathetic." Radcliffe spits, hitting Alistair straight in the face. "You were so thick you couldn't even recognize your son's own genius and potential."

For a moment there's complete stillness and silence, then Alistair takes a deep breath and says, "A nest of traitors! All of you- All of you, here to usurp me. Me! But you will bid my will, dance to whatever tune I say."

Radcliffe coughs, his whole body shaking. There's a small river of blood that is running down his chin and drops on the barren and frozen earth, painting the white frost red. The metallic taste of his own blood fills his mouth, salty and disgusting, and he realizes at once what it means to be mortal: they always joked about being above it all. Before all of this. He's at peace with himself and it's good to end it here, but regret! To have the strength to speak all those words he'd like to say to Fitz. And, above all, he's sorry. Genuinely sorry.

They liked to blame it on Alistair, he's the one who run mad, but it wasn't him, it was all of them trapped in a vicious cycle of earthly matters and passions. So quick to point fingers and say it wasn't me when they were victims as much as accomplices.

He turns around to look at Fitz, the greatest victim of all, who was always like a son to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers under his breath under a starless sky. Funny, he always thought there would be stars to watch over him, even at the very end. Then he says, "This was never my intention."

Alistair retrieves his hand and Radcliffe's heart in one go. Bloodstains the cuffs of his shirt and runs down his skin, dropping onto the ground little by little. It's an elating sensation, to have Holden finally gone: his greatest enemy and the biggest betrayal of all. They used to be friends, but how distant those days are now, how little do they matter compared to all of this.

He could laugh. Power runs through his veins: and it's intoxicating, inebriating - not even the murder of that whore he used to call wife quite compares to this. One of the oldest creatures, gone at last! And by his own hand. It's, by all means, a good start. Nay, an excellent start.

"Father!" says Fitz.

Toads croak loudly as the word seems to freeze. For a moment Fitz's mind wanders back to the events that took place not ten years ago, his desperate attempt not to cross the line while trying to save Jemma. If anything is to happen, then he won't care: anything to finally get rid of his father. He wants to feel it deep into his bones. He wants Alistair dead and burning in hell, getting the punishment he deserves. He wants the certainty of history never repeating itself ever again.

"Ah, son." Alistair poses and nudges at the flat cap in his son's hand. "The crown of a prince! Running ahead of yourself, are you? But I'm afraid that you won't be king any time soon."

Alistair moves his hand, quickly, and the cap Fitz is holding vanishes into thin air as if it just went to earth. Fitz looks at his father completely flabbergasted, opening and closing his mouth. Not that he believed that it would work, but there was a sense of safety knowing that the razor blades in flat cap were there, a sense of safety his own powers never provided. He could have used it as a distraction with every intention to harm is father and disorientate him for long enough to think of something.

A flock of ravens flies above them, loudly screaming. Dark soothsayers of doom and destruction, they disappear leaving nothing but thunder behind them as the air fills with an odd and electric atmosphere. Cuckoos and pelicans would seem more fitting: the former, symbol of monstrous and unnatural ingratitude and greed; the latter, representing self-sacrifice par excellence.

Mist begins to rise as Fitz stands erect, proudly and angered, memories flooding his brain. Memories of his mother and Jemma and all the vile tricks played by his father in the past twenty years. The torture and the killings, the violence and blood, the butchering and the innocent lives ruined forever. He thinks of Radcliffe and his promise, a simple sentence that at the time sounded like a prophecy, that Fitz was destined to take Alistair's place and stop this perversion of nature, allowing it to run its usual course once more.

"You!"

Alistair’s gaze fall on the person standing behind his son. Far away, but coming closer, walking with precise and calculated movement, confident of their objective. He stumbles backwards as if something is pushing him away, forcing him to retreat, as if he were a puppet guided by a puppeteer, strings pulled at his will, and falls on the ground in terror.

He ignores his son, his gaze captured by the figure walking towards him in their plumaged mantle. Dressed in red, it must be a trick of his mind or Radcliffe's ultimate form of revenge. Impossible. He cuts his hand on a sharp stone, his skin on fire, but the pain is dull compared to such a vision and his heart beats fast, pounds in his chest.

The girl stands tall in front of him and looks taller from such an angle. Cruel and terrifying. Other earthly. All this time there was someone ready to take Radcliffe's place, the universe balancing itself out: he wouldn't have thought it to happen so soon. He wouldn't have thought it to happen there.

"You!" He says.

Alistair’s voice is filled with poison as he spits out such a simple and short word, a monosyllabic pronoun articulated with care. His voice has hints of fear in it although it doesn’t tremble at all or break down at the very end, becoming squeaky and dying in his throat as it may happen to other people, small and weak animals. But not to him, although his eyes betray him too, held wide open in disbelief. He’s afraid to blink as if such a hard and ongoing stare could somehow prevent the person moving closer and ultimately getting to him.

"Me," the girl replies and smiles.

The smile has something similar to fake innocence in it, lulling victims and luring them in only to push them into a profound horror house. And she looks young and ancient all at once with her silver hair and a smile that makes her look cruel. Alistair wants to scream at this reckoning, but that would be a weakness. He killed Radcliffe, his sworn enemy and one-time bosom friend, he can kill her too.

"Father." Fitz is voice is like thunder, powerful. It's a voice to listen to. "Let thine eye with horror stare into that perpetual horror house! How many mothers, how many sons, have you cut, killed, bloody fucking butchered innocent and guilty, sending them straight to hell!"

Alistair laughs. "You don't have it in you, son." 

"But don't you see?" Fitz shrugs. His voice no longer sounds like his own and he hardly recognizes himself. "I do. I'm going to prove you wrong!"

Fitz's face flickers as the night makes it look distorted and horrifying, nothing there to even resemble the sweet boy that he used to be. It's the stuff of nightmares and he feels like it, plans to live up to such a thing even if it's the last thing he does.

Is this how Jemma felt all those years ago? Lost and betrayed, feeling as if there’s a fire burning inside them and consuming them, eating them alive? Fed by memories and nightmares and the promise of darkness and oblivion that seem to lure him in, an appealing prospect that somehow makes anger range inside them and brings out the worst in both of them.

Now, he can fully see the appeal of it all: free and unrestricted, making his own laws.

And yet, if the whole universe is balanced on such a fragile fulcrum, then it is the right thing to do: his father is all but innocent and deserves to die. He will be judge, jury and executioner no matter what Freya says. He will usurp his own father and take his place. After years of violence and horror, revenge seems sweet and tantalizing: he'll look forward to a new life. He'll enjoy every second of it.

Alistair is lying on the ground and tries to get up, crawling towards his son. Radcliffe's blood is starting to clot and mixes with the mud, both of them pulling at his skin and providing an uncomfortable feeling. Holden's vital energy is now his own, he can make it, but that sight! As he's about to stand, Fitz hits him with his foot, kicking his face: the tip of Fitz's shoe against his nose. It breaks and hot blood starts to run down in rivers.

"There are the furies!" Yells Fitz, such a simple action and advantage causing him to taste hints of his own power. Barely controllable power. Hot and satisfying. The hints of his own violence and darkness that incite him to go on, proceed and end this once and for all. "Tossing damned souls on burning forks. Thou shall feel them, taste the smart of all."

"Fitz!" Jemma's voice is vibrant and echoes around the glen as she oversteps some hemlock plants, stepping into the circle.

Three heads turn at once, though no one dares to speak. It's a violent silence, Alistair turns to Jemma and looks at her pleadingly, silently begging her to interfere. Wasn't it what his son and that hag were always so worried about? The darkness in them. He can take advantage and fool them both, kill them and savouring every moment.

And that fury! He'll take care of her later. It’s three against one, but he’s the devil and bears no fear to step over boundaries and break primordial laws: they stand no chance, too wrapped up in formalities and conditioning.

Fitz feels something hitting his leg and before he can realize what is happening, he lands on the ground. All the air leaves his lungs as he hits his back on the earth.

"Measureless liar!" yells Fitz at his father. "You betrayed our business."

"And your promises are as cheap as lies, son. Don't you dare snap at me, boy. I know what you did! All those years you went to see her even though you swore that you weren't and then-" He laughs. "And then you go and make the beast with two backs with her. You think you can usurp me? You really think that you could not appease me without there being any consequences?"

Alistair moves his hands around his son's throat, his fingers digging into his skin as Fitz start to croak and gasp for air. Fitz's feet leave dark streaks on the ground, eradicate grass as his entire body moves and wiggles, his hands on his father's trying to get free of his grip.

The world is spinning and slowly turning black. He turns his head to Jemma whose standing there with her arms crossed, her irregularly cut hair framing her face. Frozen on her spot, he doesn't want her to interfere for isn't this what it always came to? Her soul instead of his. let there live a happy life, let her forget all of this and him. A senseless sacrifice must be avoided.

But before he can say anything, Jemma moves her hand with one quick and swift movement. Alistair's grip loosens at once and his body is thrown against a nearby tree. She breaks his arms, the sound of bones unnaturally cracking fills the air.

"You won't hurt anyone," she says. "Not anymore."

"No!" screams Freya. "You mustn't! This isn't allowed!"

Jemma turns her head around, hardly sounding like herself when she says, "Not allowed to interfere? Watch me."

A familiar sensation, thrilling to the point of self-destruction. She embraces it fully instead of rejecting and adds, "I make my own rules and the whole universe shall dance to whatever tune I sing."

Alistair is just about to get up when Jemma pushes him back again, his head hitting the tree. Fitz rolls on the grass and gets up. He inhales sharply, the smell of blood, frost and earth filling his nostrils, and starts running towards Radcliffe's corpse, and furiously looking for the subtle knife Holden was holding while attacking his father. The blade shines in the moonlight: silver with an ivory handle, stained with blood. It looks alive and vibrant, ready to be used.

Fitz holds it tight, knuckles turning white and his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. Then, he turns first to his father and then Jemma who looks at him, stares at him and nods. She looks like her usual self albeit more controlled and colder, not the smallest glimpse of a human feeling is visible on such a polished surface.

But she must be feeling it? Revenge.

Running through their veins and consuming them, a primordial need to make things right and restore the balance of the universe. Such a small sacrifice: part of themselves. But they are powerful and in control, there's some hope left. Hope not to turn out like his father, hope of having a reasonable chance of enjoying their lives, hope that he will have a life and be able to cherish each moment.

"You put forces into motion," he says, looking at his father and walking towards him.

"All I ever wanted was-"

"You wanted power and even more power!" Fitz cuts him off, fidgeting with the knife in his hand. “All these years we all were just pawns in your bloody fucking game!”

Fitz pauses and scoffs.

From behind him, a voice whispers into Alistair’s ear and says, “You really thought that you could break the law without there being any consequences? Now, you are going to die, they’ll usurp you and you will taste the smart of it all. Your body shall boil in lead.”

“You always wanted me to be like you. Maybe you were right, maybe I am exactly like you. Only time will tell." Fitz goes on, ignoring the horror in his father’s eyes.

Fitz flings himself forwards and stabs his father in the chest, pushing the knife into the flesh with all the force he can muster. It's a spur of the moment kind of thing, an elating and inebriating feeling, that makes him go on stabbing Alistair long after his father's body lost all life.

"I-" he mumbles as the knife falls onto the ground.

"It was necessary," whispers a voice in his ear. Familiar and strange all at once, soothing and reassuring. "For the same of the universe and ourselves. I'll take care of him now."

Fitz lets out a cough as his father's corpse returns to earth and stands there paralyzed as the sky beings to clear. Doubts and fears wash over him as he looks at his blood-stained hands. Trembling fingers and yet he feels better, safer, complete despite the sudden loss of innocence.

The universe feels different as if shifted: a bright and hopeful place. Time eludes him and he couldn’t say how much time passed between one event and the other - they mix and blur and are indistinguishable as if they all happened at once.

His father. He killed his own father and yet he cannot force himself to feel sadness or regret. If anything, he feels relieved and the world was all rights and no wrongs.

He turns around to look at Jemma, although her features are indistinguishable in the night. He considers walking to her, but he's afraid that they won't be able to look each other in the eyes any longer now that they've shown their worst part. And if this is the end, he'd rather stay there a little longer pretending that nothing changed, pretending that there's still a them.

The first raindrop falls on his skin, like a tear it rolls down his cheek and drops on the earth as if to write sorrow on it. Water against soil, the noise is loud and it feels as if April came early. April with its shoures sote.

He stumbles on the grass, in Jemma's direction until they stand in front of each other and study each other wearily and attentively for some time. Infinite time. As birds and ravens fly in circles above them. He thinks he can hear a toad.

"Why did you?" he asks.

Jemma stretches her hand out, cupping his cheek. "I had to-"

"You must have heard it or else I'm going mad. You couldn't. My own father-"

"Shh, it's alright."

"Now you've seen me," he says in nothing but a whisper. He's a cold-blooded killer and feels disgusted by his own self.

"And you've seen me."

Jemma closes the distance between then and hugs him, holding him close. His head is resting on her shoulder and arms are around his back.

"You've seen me," she says again, with slightly more emphasis than before.

“Jemma-” he says as dizziness takes over him, his legs shaking and hardly carrying his weight.

“Fitz, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” she whispers, gently holding his hand as they sit on the cold and permeable gravel ground that not long ago saw blood pass through it.

“We may get sticky,” she adds as they sit down.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care,” says Fitz and lets out half a laugh and half a sob, wiping the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

As they sit there, fastened in their silent and comforting embrace, rain starts to fall properly: cold and harsh, mudding the ground. Little by little it turns into snow and she wants to say something about how much she hates it when the world is painted white only to have him reply that it isn't half as bad as she makes it sound.

Lucky him who can step through space and time and doesn't have to walk from one place to the other. But she remains silent and breathes in the smell of winter, frost, pine and earth. The smell of Fitz. The smell of hope and home.

The world already looks like a softer and more welcoming place. Although this glen surrounded by hemlock that in spring shall be studded with the most colourful flowers - violets! - will take time to forget about this dreadful night and the bloodshed that occurred.

"It's alright," she says instead. "It's over."


	8. Chapter 8

The sun shines through the window. Warm and golden light that floods the room and softens the edges of reality, making everything appear brighter and whiter. Welcoming. A place of light and goodness rather than darkness and anguish, though the latter still lingers in the corners; a reminder of sorts, an input to enjoy life more and lean into goodness because, who knows, it might be taken away. Happy and peaceful moments before the next adventure.

There are motes of dust relentlessly and tiresomely dancing in the air in front of the window. Like glitter in the early morning sun, shimmering and glimmering. On the windowsill, enjoying the early morning light, lies Sonya who gently purrs and lazily wiggles her tail against the fresh stone surface.

The last touch of frost and the lingering snow that had painted the ground white in the bleak midwinter, melted away not even a month before. The ground is no longer muddy and slippery, there’s no longer the need to step on it with care. And the colours! As bright as possible, filling the world: vibrant and saturated colours. On the trees blossoming leaves and on the ground blooming flowers. It’s nature at its best, an unlikely yet equally beautiful celebration. It’s the end of an era, marking the end of a reign of terror and chaos.

Jemma stirs under the covers, Fitz’s arms still around her waist - not the most comfortable position, she’ll admit that, but the most reassuring one. They can sleep like that and only like that, although the nightmares are diminishing and neither of them restlessly moves at night, haunted by memories. Sometimes, at night, the wolves come circling and then, trapped between the covers and in each other’s embrace, she’s out of her breath as though they were on the bottom of the ocean, drowning, water filling her lungs. His life or hers, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Sometimes, in her dreams, they do not get their deserved happy ending and it takes eternal minutes to drag herself back to reality and calm down. But the touch of lips, a hand, skin on skin, serve as a reminder and they are there: together. They made it through the sorry weeks and months that followed Alistair’s death: such a violent night finally allowing their repressed feelings to surface and explode.

They’ve mourned Hannelore and still are. They’re slowly moving on, treasuring the memories, but does it ever come to an end? Is it possible to fully leave the past behind? Not from where they stand. This influential figure as imperfect as everyone else, most of the time Jemma fears that they put her on a pedestal. For years Jemma thought that Hannelore could do nothing wrong. Ever. They had spent a long time pointing fingers like the previous generation, there was always someone with more blame. Alistair, Alistair, Alistair. And everyone else too.

There were rules, they had to be followed. Radcliffe had broken them all, interfering and challenging destiny for selfish reasons. Though Radcliffe too had been a victim before his death, to earthly passions such as lust and, above all, love. Love, filling the world and causing trouble, stirring peacefulness and perfectly ordinary lives, making them better, richer with all the trouble that it brought with it. Though it isn’t a weakness, the most surprising discovery is that there is strength in caring and unbreakable bonds of friendships, people to rely on.

And she does care a lot about everyone else. About Sonya and Fitz, Hunter and Bobbi. And Freya, even though they get out of each other’s way as Freya thinks them to be quite childish and foolish which only serves to bring out the worst in them out of pure spite; each meeting characterized by eye-rolling, sarcasm, irony and disapproving looks that make Jemma feels as though she were a young girl and Freya were some old relative looking down on her. Quite the personality, there’s no fear that Freya is going to follow in her predecessor’s footsteps and interfere. It simply doesn’t stand in the prospect of belief. Freya is strong and unhinged, part of Jemma won’t ever stop fearing that such an untamed person will step on the wrong path which is why she will always look out for her, from afar, as much as necessary, without interfering.

Jemma stretches her limbs and smiles, rolling on the side to face Fitz. He stirs under her touch, the touch of her hand on his cheek is light and gentle, and his eyelids flutter as his eyes adjust to the morning light.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“Morning,” Jemma replies, her mouth filled with the metallic taste of sleep. “Slept well?”

“Hmmm.”

At the sound of their voices, Sonya gently gets up, arches her back and yawns. Distracted from her thoughts, as if on queue, she jumps on the bed and meows at them, begging for attention. She nudges Fitz’s face with her head and purrs again, enjoying his careful ministrations as he scratches her behind her ears.

“I told you that the two of you would become best friends,” says Jemma as she moves and covers herself with the woolly duvet. Then she jokes and says, “Seems like the two of you won’t need me anymore.”

“Oh, but we do!” Fitz cuts her off and laughs. It’s a nasal sound that begins with an explosion of noise and a loud snort. His whole body shaking. “We do need you. And very much so, isn’t that so, Sonya?”

Sonya looks at her attentively, as if she’s studying Jemma’s face, and then curls at her side. A black and purring spot on the grey duvet. Jemma strokes her fur.

“Bugger,” says Fitz. “I don’t want to move.”

“Then let’s not. Let’s spend the morning in bed.”

“Jemma, we can’t do that.”

“We can if I say so. We don’t have to get up.”

At the words get up, Sonya jumps back on her legs as though ready to go downstairs for breakfast. They watch her jump down the bed and walk out of the small bedroom with eagerness and full of life. There’s something fascinating about the way Sonya’s personality matches Jemma, they’re more alike than one would think at first view: in the smallest of things, things that give away their bond and closeness.

“I don’t have any rounds today,” Jemma tells him as Sonya disappears from her vision. “And I’m pretty sure that you don’t have any obligations either.”

“No.”

“Problem solved then. We can lay here until midday and then have lunch.” She pauses and kisses him softly, her lips on his. It’s barely a brush of lips, but it’s lingering and promises more: not so much tongues touching and wandering hands, but comfort and a future. “I think it’s a sound plan. A good one.”

“You forgot-”

“Fuck. Bugger. Fuck!”

“Agnes Berwick’s coming today.”

“That. Bugger.” Jemma stops and groans as Fitz starts laughing. “Please remind me the reason behind our decision.”

“Because that’s how it works?”

“Horrid idea, who came up with that?”

“You. You said, and I’m quoting you verbatim, oh Fitz! This would be a tremendous opportunity.”

“That’s not even how I sound!”

“Only Agnes couldn’t come any other day but on a Sunday so-”

“Here we are today.”

“That.”

Jemma sighs. “A protegee.”

A pupil, just like she had once been. It seems now quite an odd timing and even odder for a girl to find herself willing to accept the position - not that there’s much freedom of choice, but there are ways. Who decided that they were ready? What if they mess it up? Agnes, that poor thing, is going to be their responsibility and Jemma is unsure whether or not they will be able to do the job.

Because there are stories. There are stories that Agnes herself might have heard. Stories that make the past year appear more glamorous than it was. Those stories never mention the feeling of betrayal and maybe, now, all comes to that: that she’s afraid to let people in and having them turn against them. History repeating itself. Didn’t they say that history was a circle? Like a snake biting its own tail.

And Alistair is dead, there’s nothing there to influence the true course of nature that for the past month flew uncorrupted. People like them and they gossip, which makes them laugh a lot as there is hardly any malice in their words or judgement. People like them and they seem excited for the Autumn wedding or the promise of it, this year or the next or the one after that when the air will smell of apples, salt and sea.

“The two of us,” replies Fitz. "With a protegee."  


He looks at her, baffled and bewildered in front of such an extraordinary and unpredicted situation. They’ve spent such a long time behaving rather immaturely, children themselves - tiptoeing and disagreeing, playfully dancing around each other, deferring and pulling away - only to be thrown into tragedy and such horrors. But to be open and welcoming despite it all, to let people into their lives (not Hunter and Bobbi, but strangers) seems like the grandest achievement, second only to have chosen life. There they are, letting Agnes is is proof enough of their progress: they are learning to trust people and are therefore destroying walls they spent their lives building up.

“It does sound strange, I’ll give you that,” says Jemma. “Though I’m quite convinced that an extra pair of hands will come in handy when the time comes.”

He takes her hand and entwines his fingers with hers. He’d love to take her hands one day, slip a wedding ring on her ring finger with all the care in the world, with shaking hands and trepidation. A symbol of their union, though they’re not the ones who need it: the past few months felt like marriage alright. With or without a ring. With or without their names written down in a register.

“I mean if one day we decided to have children.”

“Children?” asks Fitz.

“Do you mind?”

“No!” He laughs, holding Jemma close. He is ready and very much looking forward to having a family of his own, with Jemma - whom he loves and respects and looks up to, his fancy all but idolatrous - and he won’t fail like his father did. He is not Alistair and never will be. He adds, “I don’t mind. I do want children, a family, when-”

“When the time's right and we feel ready.”

“That. I won’t turn into my father, I can assure you. That poison dripping down, down, down, from one generation to the next and creating an endless cycle of misery and unhappiness. It won’t be there.”

“I know.” Jemma pauses, caressing his cheek. Fitz’s stubble is ticklish under her palm, yet she doesn’t move her hand away, continuing with her gentle and careful ministrations. “It’s true. After all that happened, you could have- You’re kind, Fitz. Generous and loyal. And I wasn’t- Not for a moment. Not once in my life did I think that you would... And- what?”

“What?”

“You look rather funny. I say, did I say something?”

“No!”

“Then what’s going on?”

Fitz snorts, hiding his face in the pillow which muffles his laughter. Then, as he finds some composure he says, “If we, in future, want children and decide to have them- I’ll have to give up on condoms.”

“That’s how it works, generally, you know,” she replies matter-of-factly, trying not to laugh or give away any sort of reaction. “You see, the-”

“Spare me the details, will you?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” adds Jemma, pushing herself up on her elbows, ready to get out of bed. “I’m going to let Sonya out and prepare our breakfast.”

“Wait!” he says, raising his hand.

He moves to reach her but retires his arm as quickly as he raised it, with such incredible urgency that make her question whether or not all is well. All seems well, a heavy conditional for the past has more influence than one would think. She smiles at him.

Fitz looks at her with softness and a hint of a mischievous grin, His blond curls fall in front of his forehead and she brushes them to the side with one swift movement.

“No more ribbons around my-” Fitz coughs as his cheeks blush. “They seemed to make me irresistible and I would hate to let you down.”

Jemma looks at him, trying her best to keep a straight face and not burst out laughing, though laughter is definitely there at the back of her throat. She doesn’t want to second him in his silliness although it comes as a breath of fresh air and is more than welcomed. Laughter, carefree and crystal clear, coming out of her mouth as she lies down again and buries her head in the crook of his neck.

Two strong subnatural creatures and very, very human at their core. In love, and ever so much, and vulnerable and strong all at once. Their laughter bubbles and echoes around the room. Their happiness tangent and palpable, making the room brighter and gentler.

“I love you, Fitz.” She whispers. “Despite your rather stupid jokes.”

“My really rather brilliant jokes.”

“No, I think I mean rather stupid.”

“Do you know?” he asks as she moves away.

“Can I kiss you?” asks Jemma. “Because I very much want to.”

Fitz nods and cups her cheeks ever so gently, as she leans forward. Jemma straddles him, her hands tugging at his shirt as she kisses him. Yearning, patiently and languidly. Sleepily, their mouths still filled with the metallic taste of sleep. Their bodies stirring and their hearts roaring. A future in the making. The air filled with sighs and moans at the back of their throats, hotter and slicker. Fitz’s hands move to her breasts and Jemma gasps, though she quickly decides that two can play this game and rolls her hips, though her triumph ad temporary victory do not last long as she and Fitz are quickly interrupted by a loud meowing that comes from the door.

“Ignore her,” says Fitz, panting, his hands running up and down her spine. “It won’t take long.”

Sonya jumps on the bed, meowing louder and louder. Her claws are out, as though she’s ready to cause mischief to get what she wants. Like a spoiled child, if not worse, it’s a trick she learned a couple of weeks earlier and now seems to apply it as though her life depends on it.

“I can’t.” Jemma laughs loudly, pulling away and getting up.

“To think it used to be me,” Fitz jokes. “The one bidding Sonya’s will.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“And now you’re the one who’s ready to dance to whatever tune she sings.”

“Such is life, I’m afraid.” She pauses giving him a quick peck on his lips. “You’re not the one to judge.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll see you downstairs then.”

He nods and watches her get up, the whole bed shaking at her sudden movement. Her back turned on him, naked skin exposed to the fresh Spring air and the sun painting the room golden. He feels peaceful, well-rested, ready to confront the future. Live! He’d ask her to marry her now, although that would probably stop her from feeding Sonya and he has no intentions to stop being on good terms with Jemma’s familiar. After all, despite everything that happened and those lingering nightmares, whispering and murmuring, he wants to live and he wants a life with her. He wants a life above all, prove himself that he can do it that he can heal as much as she did. Turn his back on the past. Move on, forwards, without ever looking back.

He can be good and a long time ago he promised himself that he would be. Half demon, half-human. He’s the devil and a person. He bleeds the same way as mortals do and he shall treasure that part of him, the vulnerable and fragile part which always grounded him to reality. He won’t let himself down, or Jemma, or anyone else on this earth. The present and the future are in their hands as are the lives of the villagers and he won’t destroy any of this.

The floor under Jemma’s bare feet is cold as she makes her way down the wooden stairs with Sonya in her arms, purring against her chest and nudging her head against her jaw.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? You poor thing.” She pauses. “But exciting times are ahead, we’ve got a girl coming in. I’m sure you’ll be friends.”

“You said that about me and Sonya too,” says Fitz as he walks down the first steps. “That didn’t turn out quite as expected.”

Jemma laughs. “You’re friends now, aren’t you?”

“Are we?” Fitz asks Sonya, who merely meows at him and jumps on the counter and out of the window as Jemma opens it. For a moment they watch her run away, down the pebbled path, into the woods, almost trotting, alert with precise and calculated movements. “Your clairvoyance isn’t up to date, you should leave that to someone else.”

“I think you are. Didn’t I tell you so?” she asks and leans her head on his shoulder. “That night, all those months ago, didn’t I say she's the best, you're going to be best friends alright?”

He nods. “And you’re always right, I suppose.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You know, Agnes was terribly hesitant to choose us.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Can you not?”

She stops to think about it for a second and then shrugs. “No, it’s there but it won’t come to me. Maybe in a moment. Besides, that’s always the case. I was utterly terrified of your mother, I thought she wouldn’t like me.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened that day, I lost control and she was always so balanced, peaceful after everything she went through she kept choosing to do good and be good. Which isn’t to say that it was easy she must have-” Jemma pauses and turns around. “Instead, Agnes will live under the same roof with two short-tempered, reckless and impulsive people.”

“A horrid combination, I must say.”

“A rather interesting one.”

“No, I mean horrid.”

“But not boring at all.”

“Never that.”

“It adds flavour to our lives.”

“Not like you flying on a broomstick would.” He snorts, the laugh is nasal and his whole body shakes as he holds the kitchen counter. He feels Jemma’s eyes on him, although the corners of her mouth are raised into half a smile, twitching as though she’s holding back laughter.

“You’re being rather silly today, how come?”

“Are we not-”

“No, it feels good. I just feel like we caught happiness by chance, that it’s going to be taken away from us yet again. I know it won’t, but you know…”

“They won’t. No one will, they’re all dead.” He pauses. “That makes it sound rather-”

“It’s for the best.”

Fitz nods. And it’s right, they can do things better all wrongs were nullified by death and destruction, the whole world reborn and free of conditioning, hate and resentment. He takes her hand. It started years ago, dripping from one year to the next and spanning for decades it had to stop at some point, sooner rather than later, meant to be although Fitz likes to imagine that they’ve had plenty of free will in all their decisions, getting there the long way round. Surely, she can see it now. 

Outside the mist is slowly rising, lifting itself and growing thinner. The colours look splendid in the morning light, vibrant and intense that make the phrase all’s well that ends well feel truer than ever. Then, from afar on the pebbled ground, a cloaked figure with a leather bag in her hand, slouching and walking to them.

“I think that’s her, don’t you?” asks Fitz.

“Yes, I should hope so. We weren’t expecting anyone else, we were?”

“Come on.”

She takes his hand and they walk to the door, smiling, hearts beating hard in their chests. Such a big responsibility, someone’s fate and education in their own hands and they were born five minutes before Agnes so who’s there to say that she’ll respect their authorities or rather take them seriously.

“You must be Agnes,” says Jemma as she stretches out her hand as she stops in front of the girl. “I’m Jemma.”

“Agnes Berwick.”

“Fitz.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

Fitz and Jemma nod.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” asks Jemma, smiling. “I can show you around later. Would you like to have breakfast, you must have left rather early this morning.”

“Came with the post-chart, Miss.”

“Jemma.”

“Jemma,” says Agnes, whose voice trembles so much that the bisyllabic word sounds longer.

“A pleasant journey, I think. Though the chart is rather slow and one could easily run past it if one were to miss it.”

Fitz snorts. “We had those too. No carriage then?”

“They don’t pass by where we live. Pa says it’s too isolated, but I think they’re afraid of highwaymen or Nac Mac Feegles showing themselves on the road. I wouldn’t mind, and I don’t think they’d care. They care about the drinkin’ and the stealin’, you know?”

“Crivens, I hadn’t heard that name in years,” says Fitz and smiles.

“Only one hears such marvellous things, they don’t stand in the prospect of belief,” says Agnes as she follows Fitz and Jemma inside the small cottage, through the grass, careful not to step on the blossoming daffodils and tulips. Each step is hesitant, calculated and nervous. Then she adds, “One hears such marvellous things about the pair of you too. And, if I’m allowed to say it, am happy to be here and am glad that you picked me up. Ever shall.”

Agnes pauses, looking at the basket she’s holding as though she suddenly remembered something important, and says, “My mother gave me cake and payment-”

“Come, come we don’t need that.”

“She wouldn’t-”

“I’m sure she needs it more than we do, does she not?” asks Jemma.

Agnes remains silent and looks away. There's embarrassment mixing with uneasiness filling the room, 

“Shouldn’t I be the one making you tea?” she asks as she gets up, with urgency painting her every movement as though she had abused their hospitality and forgot her place.

The same reaction Jemma had when getting to Hannelore and perhaps the same as Bobbi moved in to train under her mother. Momentarily forgetting themselves, they said that dangerous things happened when you did although what came to happen? Shame, perhaps. Embarrassment for having forgotten her position, nothing that would last longer than an hour at best.

“You don’t have to,” says Fitz. “I can do it. You’re not here to be our slave, are you?”

“I don’t- I don’t think so.”

“Good. We could never just sit here while you walk around doing everything, you’re here to learn.”

“That’s what they said.” Agnes pauses. “Though, you know, I thought- Suppose they wouldn’t have me. There are… rumours. And I’m just, well, me. I’m not a witch, I rather stubbornly decided that I wanted to be one.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

“I suppose not.” She pauses. “But are the stories true? About the old days? Because I’m afraid I rather like being human with all that comes with and I do love learning and I do so want to be a witch and help people. Gosh, will I have to stop seeing my friends?”

“No! Why would you want you to do that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything although I can do some reading and writing, and I did go to Sunday school and paid attention. Potential, that’s what my ma says I have. Yes, I think so.”

Jemma looks at Agnes and then at Fitz. Sonya is tentatively walking to her, about to nudge her and jump on her lap. A bright young thing, it takes will to decide out of the blue to just become a witch, it takes guts to decide to help people, getting past the I can’t and embrace one’s duty. And this keenness to mask fear with words, the same as Fitz’s all those years ago. Nervous sentences spoken in rapid succession.

“That helps, of course. We’ve got some books if you want to read them.”

“I’d like that.”

“And you mustn’t believe that it’ll be easy. Sometimes people can be quite difficult.”

“That’s alright.”

“Do you have any siblings, Agnes?” asks Fitz.

“Seven. But I’m the youngest. Spoiled rotten, but I can do the hard work as I already did a year in the plains working for an old lady. Although it certainly wasn’t a big house, not like my ma expected it to be, but I did the cleaning and cooking and I helped the Lady so I can do the cleaning and the cooking and help you.”

“Agnes?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not going to do everything. You’re here to learn.”

“I don’t want to let you down. I-”

It’s a silence that fills itself, or rather it’s all up to the listeners to fill it with whatever context suits best. It seems rather unlikely for Agnes to know about the heartbreak and horror and the sorrows written on the bosom of the earth. The unravelling tragedies, looking back it feels as though most people in their lives have failed them up to a certain extent anyway. People letting them down, rather than protect them and children left to their own devices and growing up half-wild and a little bit doomed, always trying to please someone. Always tempted to cross the line. And still, that feeling, lingering deep down.

“You won’t. And it’s the balance that counts, as long as you fix your mistakes nothing bad will happen.”

Fitz takes Jemma’s hand and squeezes it. A reassuring touch, a touch that silently summons courage and makes moments like these easier, backing hope up. Confidence and determination, part of him is as scared as Jemma. He feels Agnes gaze on them, studying them wearily.

Agnes looks at them befuddled and surprised which may be because Fitz and Jemma, sitting there with their cups of teas and their smiles, in a kitchen filled with the smell of dry rosemary and flowers next to the sink, look like a walking contradiction. There’s no doubt that this was the right choice, she thinks, and it’s less intimidating than she imagined: this brand new life, training under one of the most respected and renowned witches in years and the devil. This brand new adventure And she, for one, is looking forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> -_[Lullay, mine liking](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hd2OPoieQ4w)_ is a Middle English lyric poem of the 15th century. The text is found singularly in the Sloane Manuscript 2593.  
\- “Rosemary Is for remembrance, between us day and night...” _The Handful of Pleasant Delights_ (1584).  
\- Essex holds the dubious honour of holding the title “Witch County”. However, while England continued to see witch trials and prosecutions during James’s reign, the numbers were certainly less compared to Scotland, Germany, France.  



End file.
